


How to Save A Life

by FieryPen37



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Survival, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apocalypses can come in all shapes and sizes. This one in Maine came in the form of zombies and worse. When Belle's group capture a man named Gold, they are faced with a choice of staggering consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smile, It's the End of the World

How to Save a Life

 

 

Before, apocalypses had come in all shapes and sizes. Epidemics, financial crises, genocide, and war. Moe’s personal apocalypse came in the form of a dead wife and a new baby girl in a crappy apartment in Melbourne, when he could still smell funeral flowers and didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to _do_. She was worth it though, Belle made it worth it. They were years and worlds away from that now. They had made it together, him and his girl.   

Moe heaved the refilled fuel canisters into the back of his van, the _Game of Thorns_ logo faded and sporting a couple gooey stains. The results of another apocalypse, the biggest and strangest and goriest the world had seen. Like something out of the fevered brain of a paranoid shut-in. The dead rising, and all that. But not in the sweet way of Lazarus in his funeral clothes. No, this was fever and madness, a bloody death, then . . . then the corpse waking up with an ungodly appetite.

“You got that, darling?” Moe asked, watching Belle struggle with lifting two square ammunition cases. A narrow blue glare answered him through flyaway strands of chestnut hair.

“I’ve got it, Dad,” Belle grunted and shoved the remainder of their ammo into the van’s bed. Moe nodded, knowing better than trying to tell Belle what she could and couldn’t do. He pushed back the bill of his sweat-stained Melbourne Renegades ball cap and squinted at the overcast sky. A brisk wind raked through skeletal trees, tearing through his worn coat and shirt. He saw Belle shudder and wished he had something better than a tattered hoodie to clothe her in. Her jeans were ripped and had holes at the knees—not on purpose—and the shirt had once been blue and now was a rusty sort of purple.  Walker bloodstains were hard to get out.  

“We’d best finish up here. It looks like rain.” Moe caught up his shotgun and made his way to the wrecked Chevy smashed into a tree, smelling of pine resin and spilled gasoline.  He heaped the boxes of cereal and cans of vegetables strewn in the trunk bed into a laundry basket.  The former owners lay strewn across the street in similar states of grisly repose; one was a young woman who looked no older than Belle. The blood had dried into a gummy brownish mess, flies buzzing with alacrity. The walkers had moved on some time ago, by Moe’s reckoning. The wind helped with the smell.     

“Right.” Belle’s reply was soft and Moe looked back and found her gnawing on her lower lip and fiddling with the strap of her leather holster at her right hip.

“Shouldn’t we bury them, at least?” she asked, eyes fixed on the eviscerated remnants of a boy no older than ten, his entrails peeking from beneath the oversized Def Leppard t-shirt.

“Bells, you know we can’t do that. We have to keep moving. We told the others we’d be back before nightfall,” Moe said gently. His sweet girl. She took care of everybody. Before, she was going to school to be a social worker. Much too busy to find the right guy before the world went to hell.

“Ok. Mei-Xing and Phil threatened to come after us if we were late again,” she said with a weak smile, slinging an empty rucksack over her shoulder.

Moe snorted at the mention of Belle’s two school friends. Mei-Xing, the Chinese exchange student, had majored in corporate law. Her father had been a famous kung fu and weapons master and taught his little girl everything he knew. Mei-Xing knew seven ways to kill a man with a Popsicle stick and had adapted to the zombie apocalypse remarkably well. The fucking _sword_ she carried around helped too. Phil was a milder sort. He went into social work like Belle and was handy with machines, thanks to his mechanic daddy. He was a handsome, gallant lad, one Moe would have happily allowed to date Belle. Too bad Phil was crazy sick in love with some girl named Aurora.

It grew too dark to see by the time Moe and Belle had finished loading the last of the supplies from the destroyed Chevy. Belle had laid rags over the faces of the dead—those that still had faces, anyway, and murmured a few words. Rain pattered, first in cold little sprinkles, then a fine miserable drizzle, then a thundering downpour.

“We’ve lingered too long. Let’s go!” Moe shouted over the rising din of rain. There was an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades. On the road like this, with dense Maine forest pressing in on each side, he felt claustrophobic, with the imagined press of eyes behind every tree. Walkers weren’t their only worry. Moe winced as Belle slammed the rear door of the van shut and again as they both climbed into the van’s open cab and turned the engine over. Noise attracted walkers.

“Seatbelts,” he said, turning to grin at Belle.

“Dad, look out!”

Cold hands seized his arm and Moe turned to see the half-decomposed face of the boy snarling and snapping at him. The rapport of Belle’s pistol echoed horribly in the metal box of the van. Brain splattered on Moe’s arm and stuck, cold and sticky to his cheek. The walker slumped and Moe wasted no time, whipping the van into gear and stomping on the gas, ears ringing and blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue. He swiped the gunk from his face, praying none of it got in his mouth. Aside from bites and scratches, they still hadn’t pinned down the exact mechanism of transmission. More and more were turning, and it scared him.

“Were you bitten? Scratched?” Her voice seemed to reach him from a long way off, and barely audible over the intense ringing.  Dewed with rain and highlighted by the green dash, Belle’s face looked like a ghoulish caricature of fear.

“I’m fine. I’m ok,” Moe said hastily, his voice thick and slow to his ears. The van’s wipers were slow, so much of his concentration was on the road, trying to navigate the abandoned vehicles strewn along the highway. That didn’t stop him from hearing Belle’s smothered sobs, or fail to glimpse her hand shake as she returned her pistol to its holster.

“That’s why we never go out alone, Belle. Just think if it was you or Emma out there alone.”

“I know. I just needed to get away, just for a moment. Nothing happened yesterday.” Moe scowled at the windshield.

“But it _could_ have, Bells. You know how fast it happens.”

“Let’s just drop it,” Belle whispered, huddling under the wholly inadequate protection of her hoodie.

They rode in silence the rest of the way, and Moe regretted turning the incident into a fucking teaching moment. If he hadn’t been sitting there with his thumb up his arse, he could have saved Belle from having to put down what had once been a child. Climbing out of their shelter to go read for an hour in peace wasn’t the same thing. On a good day, one could barely see the dirt road that led to their camp. Squinting through the rain, Moe would have missed it if not for Belle’s signal.

“There, Dad.”

Moe uttered a curse, whipping the van onto the faint track. Navigating the booby traps and switchbacks took some time, but soon enough they were outside the cabin. By all outward appearances, it was burned out and abandoned.  Belle swung down from the van’s cab and cupped her hands to her mouth, shouting: “Paradise!” For a minute, it was silent except for the rain. Then a shout of the accompanying phrase: “Lost!” A heavy screech opened the cabin’s fortified door. David emerged, M16 at the ready. The codes phrases corresponding to famous literature had been Belle’s idea. Still, they had survived this long by being cautious. Upon seeing Belle, David relaxed.

“We were starting to worry about you guys. Any trouble?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Belle replied, brushing past David into the cabin. David arched one golden brow at Moe, slinging the gun along his back to help Moe unload.

“Something happen out there?” he asked, taking the ammo cases in one hand and slinging a water canister onto his shoulder. A farm-boy from upstate, David was as strong as an ox. Moe hunched his shoulders as a streamlet of water trickling from the van’s bent frame wormed its icy fingers down the back of his coat.

“I said something stupid. No surprises there,” he muttered. David grunted, but if it was in reply to Moe’s words in a response to heaving his load onto the cabin’s porch, Moe wasn’t sure.

“Had to put down a child walker. It shook her up a bit,” Moe elaborated as they sloshed through the mud and puddles to gather more from the van’s bed.

“That’s rough. My girls will talk to her.” David said, blue eyes sincere, “She’ll be alright, Moe. Belle’s a tough cookie.”

“All our cookies are tough,” Moe said with a tired smile. David preened a little, scratching the golden stubble on his chin. His wife, Snow, was their master archer and a wicked cook to boot. Skills they could attribute to her hippie parents, along with her unusual name, Moe often joked. And Emma, their lanky teenage adopted daughter, was their best scavenger. ‘Tough cookie,’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

“That’s the truth,” David replied. A chilly moment passed between them, ever-present worry darkening their eyes. No matter how tough they were, their group was still pathetically small, scrappy and under-armed. And more than half of them were very beautiful women. A fucking buffet to any passing group of marauders.    

“Ooh, Cookie Crisp! I love this stuff,” Emma said, snagging the waterlogged box from the laundry basket Moe held.  David laughed, snagging her in a one-armed hug and kissing her wild blond curls.

“Let’s get this stuff in. I’m sure Snow has supper ready.”

“I’ll pull the van around to the barn,” Moe said, shoving the basket toward Emma, “Make yourself useful, Blondie.” Emma tucked the Cookie Crisp under her arm, accepting the basket with a stuck-out tongue. Moe ruffled her hair with a chuckle and stepped back into the rain. The quicker he hid the van, the quicker he could get inside with warmth, food and safety.

“Hey Moe, hang on a sec,” David called, stepping up the door as Moe sat in the cab. A cold ball settled in Moe’s belly at the dark, serious look on David’s face.

“We have a . . . a visitor in the barn.” Moe’s stomach dropped to his toes, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“A _visitor_? How did he find us?”

“Snow found him run up a tree just outside our perimeter. Walkers had killed his friends, but he’d put down six before he ran out of ammo.”

“ _Six_?” The man sounded dangerous.

“And you brought him back here?” Moe said incredulously.

“He’d already seen the fence and Snow from his tree. It was only a matter of time. We blindfolded him, tied him up. He won’t tell us his name, or where he’s from. Mei-Xing and I roughed him up pretty good.” David’s brawny shoulders twitched defensively beneath the damp red flannel of his shirt.

“So what’s the plan? Keep him here until his people come looking for him?” Moe said.

“We could just turn him loose. He wouldn’t survive long without this.”

David pulled a modified Colt .45 from his shoulder holster. Moe muttered a low curse. Two years of scavenging had earned them an armory of weapons held together with duct tape and spit. This was a work of loving mastery, even to Moe’s unschooled eyes. Phil would no doubt salivate over the thing with its gold grips and extended magazine.

“A man who can hold onto that for so long is either very lucky or--”

“Dangerous,” David finished.

“We have to know what he knows,” Moe said. The world was a darker, harsher place now. No room to be squeamish if it meant their group’s safety.

“Mei-Xing and I will take care of it after supper,” David said, nodding grimly. Moe yanked the van into gear.

“Belle won’t agree,” David said, stepping back onto the porch. Moe snorted.

“Understatement of the bloody century.”

 

**ZZZ**

 

The space heater squealed in protest when Belle twisted it on. A sigh gusted from her as the heat seeped through her sodden clothing. She made a mental note to thank Phil for fixing the generator. It certainly was a godsend when one was soaked to the bone with a rainy Maine autumn creeping in. The cabin’s only bedroom belonged to Belle, Mei-Xing and Emma, who slept crammed into a full bed. Snow and David snuggled in the attic, leaving Dad and Phil to bunk down on the floor of the main room. Belle shucked off her hoodie and shirt, huddling on the dusty floorboards in front of the space heater to untie her boots. The sodden laces defied her and she bit her lip, both to bite back a cry of frustration and to keep her teeth from chattering.

She understood, she did. These days, they were all paranoid and over-protective. But she was twenty-five fucking years old. Old enough to rent a car for God’s sake. Finally free, Belle pried off first one boot, then the other. She could bloody well take care of herself. Shimmying out of her sodden jeans and socks, she huddled in her underwear under the protection of a threadbare towel. Belle scrubbed her head, knowing her hair would be unmanageable if she let it be. No one batted an eyelash when Mei-Xing wandered off alone!

“Luck was on my side. I found you some dry clothes. Emma forgot most of our laundry was still on the line when the rain came in,” Mei-Xing said, shouldering open the cracked door. Upon seeing her friend, Belle could concede there was a reason for that. She was a study in lean, black lethality: black hair caught up in a topknot, clad in dark jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt with the battered black sheath of her sword across her back.

“Thanks,” Belle said, giving up on finger-combing her hair in exchange for the clean-ish jeans and flannel shirt neatly folded in Mei-Xing’s hands.

“Mei-Xing, what happened to your hands?” Belle asked, reaching for Mei-Xing’s left hand, sporting spectacular bruises across the knuckles. Mei-Xing snatched her hand back, her face was inscrutable. Belle missed the times they had done homework together and giggled over each other’s attempts to learn the other’s language. A pang struck Belle’s heart. She supposed the end of the world and knowing that she would never see her family again would make anyone grim.

“It’s nothing, Belle. Get dressed. It’s time for dinner.”

“Mei-Xing--” the door shut with a crisp click behind the other woman. Belle sighed and reached for the jeans.

            Dinner consisted of the rabbits Snow had shot, roasted over the fireplace, plus cans of green beans seasoned with rabbit grease and salt. A handful of Cookie Crisp made up dessert. Emma had already devoured her portion and some of David’s with alacrity. If pressed, Belle would have said she missed forks and chairs. She missed not having to have a gun within arm’s reach. But these people, sitting cross-legged in a half-circle before the fire, were the best in the world. She would kill or die for any of them, as they would for her. They ate in silence, save for the hiss of the fire and the drumming of the rain on the roof.

 Belle nudged Phil from his narrow-eyed concentration on his green beans. His smile was quick and sweet, brown eyes soft behind the foggy lenses of his glasses. Belle was a sucker for brown eyes. Once there might have been something between them, after Phil had confided in her what had happened to Aurora. Now they were more brother and sister and they both were more comfortable in that place.

“What are you thinking about? Usually machines are the only ones to get such concentration,” she said, spearing a green bean with the tiny prong of her plastic spork. She chased a dripping trail of juice into her mouth, waiting for her answer. Phil took in a breath to answer when Snow circumvented him.

“Belle, we have a guest in the barn,” she said, tossing a strand of her black hair over her shoulder.

“A guest?” she repeated, watching Snow’s face. A tiny line appeared between Snow’s arched brows, distress evident in her posture. A cold, clawing feeling scraped down Belle’s spine and settled in her belly.

“He wandered onto our camp. Killed six walkers on his own after they killed his buddies,” Phil said, gnawing on a strip of rabbit meat. Belle digested this, turning to Mei-Xing.

“Did he attack you?”

Looking acutely uncomfortable, Mei-Xing glanced at David then back to Belle.

“No. He did not. We had to learn what he knew of us.” Her face must have reflected her horror, because Phil patted her knee.

“And what did you learn?” she asked.

“He said nothing,” Mei-Xing replied, eyes downcast.

“It’s been decided, Belle. We have to take care of it,” David said, gently.

“He’s a threat. He _knows_ about the cabin,” Dad echoed, scowling. Belle’s stomach turned. She looked from face to face, seeing expressions ranging from Mei-Xing’s stony resolve to Emma’s acute disquiet.

“So that’s it? After dinner we just put a bullet in his head?”

“Belle . . .” Phil whispered, laying oil-rimmed fingers on her arm.

“No! This isn’t us. We aren’t like them. We’re alive. We’re _human_.  We don’t kill in cold blood!” Belle hissed, rising up onto her knees.

“He would have shot at me today, but his gun was empty,” Snow said, beautiful face lined with an expression of extreme remorse. Emma huddled closer to her mother, stirring a green bean idly in her can. Horrified, Belle turned to Phil.

“You can’t agree with this!” she said, pleading with him to side with her. Phil dragged his fingers through his collar-length brown hair.

“It isn’t a matter of agreement, Bells. This guy, whoever he is, he isn’t one of us. And he definitely isn’t worth one of our lives. What happens if we let him go? He gets his buddies and brings ‘em back here to take what we have. Or kill us, or worse.” A shudder rippled through her. Belle could guess what ‘worse’ meant.

“It’s what has to be done, darling.” Belle lunged across the circle and grabbed her father’s hand.

“Dad, please. L—Let me talk to him. Maybe if we explain our predicament, he’ll--”

“What, Belle? Promise he won’t seek revenge?” Mei-Xing’s voice was cold and sharp as the steel of her sword and cut just as deeply.

“He wouldn’t _need_ revenge if you hadn’t--” Belle began.

“Enough!” David snapped. Belle exhaled through her nose, sinking back onto her haunches. Tense silence stretched on, none of them meeting her eye. Belle swallowed twice and tried again.

“Can’t you let me at least try? Please?” she begged.

“Come on, Pop. Let Belle try. What harm could it do?” Emma said, green eyes shining. David’s square jaw clenched.

“Snow?” he asked, seeking her input and support, as always. Snow offered Belle a watery, apologetic smile.

“Let her try,” she said quietly. Triumph glowed hot and brilliant in her chest. She could do this, she could save this man. David glanced from Moe to Mei-Xing to Phil. Finally, he heaved a sigh. His deep blue eyes held Belle’s and in them, she saw the conflict weighing on him and forgave him for it.  

“Fine. I don’t see what good it will do, but I give you tonight to try and accomplish whatever you think you can. But at dawn . . .”

“You’ll execute him, I get it,” Belle said, rising to her feet. She understood their point. It didn’t make it any less reprehensible or her any less determined to circumvent it, but she did understand.

But she had to try.

“I take it you haven’t fed him today? Or tended his wounds?” Belle said scathingly. They all had the grace to look abashed. Belle snatched up the remnants of her own meal; she’d lost her appetite.

“I fed him a fiber bar through the slats of the barn,” Emma piped up. David and Snow swiveled toward their daughter, pinning her with matching glares.

“What?” Emma said, toying with the end of her ponytail, “It’s not like he could grab me or anything. He said, ‘Thank you, lass.’” Emma giggled and gestured.

“Oh, don’t forget his cane, Belle. That might help butter him up.” Belle bit back several choice responses for depriving a crippled man from his aids, and instead said, “Thanks, Emma. That’s a good idea.” Belle hooked the gold-handled cane over her arm, gathering the food, Snow’s first aid kit and a ratty flannel blanket.

 Dad’s voice followed her out into the rain: “Mei-Xing, go with her. If he tries anything funny, kill him.”

The rain hadn’t let up; in fact, it looked like it was coming down harder. Belle and Mei-Xing huddled under a raincoat as they sloshed through the puddles to the barn. The lone flashlight illuminated the rusty padlock barring the door. Mei-Xing produced the key and together they hauled the heavy door wide enough to slip inside. Dad’s van and David’s Honda sat idle.

“Phil took the master fuses. Even if our guest got out of his cell, he could not escape,” Mei-Xing whispered in Belle’s ear. Belle made a noncommittal sound. ‘Guest’ and ‘cell’ were words that should never be in the same sentence. On the barn’s corrugated tin roof, the rain sounded more like a hurricane. Aside from their makeshift garage and Phil’s workshop, the barn had a couple stalls where they stored supplies, mostly water and gas. Their guest supplanted the red gas cans in the farthest stall.

“Ah, the hour of my reckoning has come at last,” drawled a raspy, Scottish-burred voice.

“Not quite,” Mei-Xing said, lifting the flashlight to his face through the grill of welded rebar.

“Bloody Christ, you are a cruel wee bitch, eh?” he muttered, holding up a hand to shield his eyes.

“Oh, please.” Belle said, taking the flashlight, and pointing it at the ceiling.

He didn’t look dangerous and he didn’t look like a cripple, she thought. On the uneven concrete floor of the stall, he sat leaning against the wall, one knee drawn up and one leg extended. He wore nondescript jeans and boots, a blue shirt spackled with bloodstains, and a black leather jacket. Brown hair threaded with grey hung all the way to his shoulders, tucked behind his ear to reveal a homely, pointed face. A homely face bearing the recent marks of a beating. His lip trickled blood in sticky trails, another cut wept blood high on his left cheek.

“I’ve brought you some food,” she said. His smirk revealed the glint of a gold tooth. He waggled his bound hands in her direction.

“And how do you suggest I eat, dearie?” he said, arching a brow. Belle frowned.

“I suppose I’ll have to feed you,” she said, hauling at the chain locking the stall door. Mei-Xing’s callus-roughened hand closed over Belle’s elbow.

“This is foolish. If he’s hungry, he’ll find a way to eat what you’re kind enough to give him.” Her slanted black eyes flashed, nervy strength emanating from her. Mei-Xing was _scared_. Hordes of undead pawing clumsily at them, and she hadn’t batted an eyelash. But this man, tied and beaten, scared her.  

“He’s not an animal,” Belle said, shrugging off the grip and pushing open the stall door. Her bravery was a weak, quivering thing in her belly. She would not turn her back on this man. Belle brandished the first aid kit and his cane with a wobbly smile.

“Let me see if I can fix you up.” The man’s dark eyes flickered over her coolly, then smirked.

“Even if this is your version of ‘good cop, bad cop,’ I don’t really care. Have at it, dearie.”

Belle offered a hollow, breathless laugh, kneeling beside him gingerly and surveying the damage. Mei-Xing had really done a number on him. Aside from the obvious damage to his face, he was favoring his right side, bruised ribs, maybe? And his _hand_ . . . with a gasp, she glanced quickly at Mei-Xing.

“Did you break his finger?” her tone was equal parts disbelief and horror, gesturing to the pinky finger of his left hand, hanging at an odd angle. The man’s chuckle ended with a grunt of pain.

“No, that was the big, blond one. The other black-haired lass got me with an arrow, here.” The man lifted both hands, wrists bound by zip-ties, and gestured toward his right shoulder. She gulped, trying and succeeding in envisioning David’s strong, callused hands snapping the man’s finger like a chicken bone.

“Here,” she murmured, splinting the broken finger between two tongue depressors, securing it with black electrical tape.  Belle peered at the leather-clad shoulder and saw the sluggish pulse of blood, slick and dark like oil in the low light, trickling from a neat hole in the meat of his deltoid. There was a hot knot in her throat, she felt like she was choking on it.

“The arrow knocked me on my arse. I hope you weren’t killing rotters with those arrows,” the man said, obligingly leaning forward so Belle could peel back the jacket and tend the wound.

“What color was the fletching?” Belle asked, to distract him, as her cold, shaking hands rummaged through the first aid kit.

“Blue, but not nearly as bright as your eyes, dearie.” The soft tone was accompanied by a coy tilt of his chin and the velvet dark of his brown eyes that made her stomach flip. It had been two years since anyone had _flirted_ with her. Beneath the leather and blood, there was quite a bit of wiry muscle on him . . . Fumbling, Belle poured the alcohol over his wound instead of the gauze she held and he howled something in a guttural tongue. Gaelic?

“Sorry, oh I’m so sorry!” Belle cried, slapping a waterproof bandage over the wound and scrambling back a pace. Her hand clapped on the rough grip of her pistol. Behind her, Belle heard Mei-Xing shift forward. The man grimaced, regarding her through the screen of damp brown hair, chest heaving.   

“It’s all right. Let’s have some of that food instead, hmm? I’ll manage with the rest just fine.” Belle nodded, thankful the low light hid her fierce blush.

“We use the blue-feathered arrows to hunt food only. Prevents contamination.” Belle felt like she was babbling as she cleaned his battered mouth with the damp hem of her sleeve. Then she speared a bite of rabbit meat and the man accepted without demur, stabilizing the wobbling spork with his fingers. His breath was a warm, tickling caress on the backs of her fingers.   

“Smart,” he said as he chewed. The tension relaxed a little as Belle speared him bites, the din of the rain the only sound.

“What’s your name?” she asked, watching his long throat shiver as he drank from the water bottle she offered. The change was immediate. His dark eyes narrowed, fingers curling in the slightest of defensive gestures.

“Impressive. You almost had me, little Beauty.” Belle heaved an exasperated sigh.

“Oh yes, my master plan. Ply you with cold meat and spilled rubbing alcohol all to learn that most vital piece of intel: your bloody name.” The man chuckled, tapping the tip of her nose in a surprisingly fond gesture.

“Names have power, dearie. I’d be honored to have yours.”

The wicked whisper of Mei-Xing’s sword leaving its sheath made them both freeze. Belle glanced over her shoulder to find her friend radiating murder, sword glittering in the reflected light. The message was blindingly clear, and Belle swallowed hard at the blazing look arching between the two. All pretense of good humor had ebbed from the man’s vulpine features.

“I don’t think your friend likes me,” he said. Upon hearing the icy, brittle anger in his tone, Belle realized she missed the warm, teasing burr.

“For God’s sake! This is ridiculous. You,” she stabbed a finger at Mei-Xing, “cool it! He hasn’t done anything to merit that. And you,” she grabbed a handful of his leather jacket and hauled him close, “If you don’t want my friend to stab you, I suggest you start being a bit more cooperative.”

The long, indulgent smirk was back, sleepy half-lidded dark eyes contemplating Belle.

“I do love a strong woman. Aye, an armistice, then?” the man offered, raising one brow in Mei-Xing’s direction. In reply, the Chinese girl grunted, sheathing her sword with practiced ease.

“You have everyone spooked,” Belle said, readying another bite.

“The feeling is entirely mutual, little Beauty,” he said, accepting the proffered spork,

“And the name’s Gold, by the way.” Belle arched a brow, startled by his easy admission.

“What changed your tune?” she asked, oddly mesmerized by the languid way he licked the last of the rabbit grease from his lips.

“You earned it.” Gold said, shrugging. The shrug earned a wince. Belle fussily gathered the empty tin can, soggy paper plate and empty water bottle.

“Just Gold? No first name?” His smile was more a grimace.

“Gold will do, little Beauty.”

“My name is Belle.” Gold rose onto his knees and made a ridiculously extravagant bow. Belle, who’d skittered into a nervous crouch, laughed softly.

“I am honored with your name, Belle. Thank you for the food and the tending, but this is where our little truce must end,” Gold said, face creased with regret.

“Why?” she asked. His dark eyes met hers, bleak and bottomless.

“Because regardless of what you hope to accomplish, your people still plan on killing me. And as lovely as I find you, little Beauty, I will not reveal anything about _my_ people. You have a name to carve on my burial marker, that is enough.”

“But Mr. Gold--” Belle began. He lunged and Belle heard a harsh cry, the screech of steel. But mostly, she felt his chapped lips pressed against hers, fingers hard and warm as they framed her throat. For all his sudden movement, his mouth was gentle, teasing her with tender stroke of his tongue along her lower lip. The kiss lasted for a handful of seconds, and then Mei-Xing hauled Belle back and her booted foot caught Gold in the stomach. He crumpled into a fetal position, sucking in pathetic little breaths.

“Bitch,” Gold wheezed. Mei-Xing’s sword flashed, the tip resting at his chin.

“Speak again,” she warned. The tip delicately grazed his throat, just over the throbbing pulse of an artery. Belle shook herself from her daze.

“Stop! Stop this! He didn’t hurt me.”

“He could have,” Mei-Xing countered, resting her booted foot on Gold’s heaving chest, “You heard him, Belle. He won’t tell us anything. Best to just kill him now.”

“No!” she shouted, lunging between them, “I was given tonight to talk to him. You have no right to cut that short!” She grasped for something, anything to stay his execution. He was human being, for God’s sake! Belle opted for heartfelt sincerity.

“Please,” she whispered. Mei-Xing scowled, but stepped back, yanking Belle up with her.

“Fine. But from now on, you talk outside his cell.”

“The first aid kit!” Belle protested.

Cursing fluently in Chinese, Mei-Xing snatched up the kit, kicked the stall door closed, and locked it. In the hubbub, someone had knocked over the flashlight. Belle flailed in the dark to retrieve it, setting it pointing upward outside the stall. Peering through the screen of rebar, she watched Gold roll onto his hands and knees, the sound of his breathing harsh and ragged. He coughed and Belle watched flecks of blood spackle the concrete. Belle glared at Mei-Xing. The Chinese girl returned her stare with what Phil joked was her Terminator look: blank, cold, and calculating.

“Why did you do that?” Belle said, unsure of who she was talking to. Gold sank back onto his haunches, his hair obscuring his eyes, but not the smug grin.

“I’ll be in the ground by morning, little Beauty. Your kiss to carry me into eternity? Sounds like a damn good way to go.” Belle heard an aching depth of sincerity beneath the light tone. She chewed on her lower lip, at a loss for what to do or say.

“I would like to make a request.”

“We owe you nothing,” Mei-Xing said icily.

“Hear him out, at least,” Belle whispered.

Gold grabbed his cane and climbed laboriously to his feet. He was a short, slender man, but even beaten and bound he carried _authority_. A flick of his chin brushed his hair from his eyes. He sucked blood from his lower lip and spat a globule of bloody spittle in Mei-Xing’s direction.  

“Deals are my trade, dearie. There is indeed a debt you owe me.” Belle hugged herself, suddenly cold. That tone of restrained rage oddly made his voice lower and softer, so much so Belle had to strain to hear him over the rain. Some of her naiveté suffered a painful death. Gold wasn’t just a charming older man that flirted with her, as harmless as an old lion languishing in a cage. He was dangerous, a killer in this world and probably the one before. Painting him as anything else was the height of stupidity.   

“What is that?” Mei-Xing asked, a sneer in her tone. Gold’s gaze did not waver from Mei-Xing, the two of them seemed to battle silently in cold, unmoving glares.

“My gun. Check the chamber. I had one bullet left. I could have killed your girl, as easily as I put down those rotters. I could have, but I didn’t.”

“What, and we just let you go? You are still a threat to us. What is to stop you from going back to your people and leading them back here to murder us all?”

“I suppose my word wouldn’t suffice?” Gold drawled, tilting his head to one side. Mei-Xing snorted in reply.

“I thought not. Very well then. In that case . . .” Gold reached into a pocket on in the inner lining of his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

Limping over to the stall door, he pushed the damp wad of paper through the gap in the grill toward Belle. She accepted it, no longer seeing the snarling monster in the cage, or the flirting gentleman. Now, in his pleading brown eyes, she saw perhaps Gold at his truest self. He grasped at her fingers and they braided together in a trembling knot.  

“If . . . if you ever come across a sixteen year old boy, my height with black hair and brown eyes by the name of Bailey, give this to him. Tell him . . .” Gold’s voice wobbled and broke and Belle felt tears well up and spill down her cheeks.

“Tell him his father never stopped looking for him. Tell Bae his Papa died loving him.” Belle squeezed his fingers, feeling a similar pressure around her heart. Oh God, how could they do this? Kill a man searching for his son for . . . for what? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

“I will, Gold. I promise,” Belle croaked. A sheen of moisture glistened on his face, but if it was sweat or tears, Belle couldn’t tell.

“Thank you, Belle.” That fragile whisper would carve itself into her memory as would his look of unbearable tenderness.

“Give it to me,” Mei-Xing said, holding out her hand for the letter. Gold’s grip tightened, eyes suddenly wild.

“What are you going to do? Set it on fire before my eyes?” he snarled. An incredible softening settled over Mei-Xing’s face and Belle saw the girl she had met in a college dorm, homesick but desperately hoping to fit in.  

“No. I understand honor. And what a parent is willing to do for his child. I will keep it safe, I swear.” Mei-Xing promised. Her bruised hands tenderly tucked the letter into the waterproof pocket of their raincoat and zipped it closed. Mollified, Gold pressed his forehead against the bars.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his breath warm against Belle’s captured hand. A long, nerve-wracking silence stretched on as they all stood frozen. Belle’s heart was pounding; she knew she couldn’t bear it now. She could never forgive this! Dimly, she noticed she hadn’t relinquished her grip on his hand. No, she would hold his hand as Mei-Xing lifted her gun and . . .

“Belle, we should go,” Mei-Xing said at last.

“What? Aren’t you going to do it?” Gold’s voice threatened to crack.

“Belle was promised tonight. Make peace with yourself in that time,” Mei-Xing said with barely a quaver, burying the soft girl’s heart behind the warrior’s coldness with some visible effort. Belle grasped for composure. There was no answer. There was a forest of thorns determined to shred what was left of their humanity. They lived in a cruel world where mercy was weakness, and weakness was death. It hurt. It hurt so badly.

“I’m so sorry,” Belle whispered, bent over their joined hands.

“Hey . . . it’s alright, lass. At least I got a kiss out of the deal.” Gold’s low, Scottish voice spoke the words in a low croon, like a child’s lullaby. The joke was feeble and unfair, but Belle choked out a laugh regardless.

His wobbly smile struck her heart hard and fast. Belle seized the brave, mad impulse that welled up and said: “Well here’s another.” She pressed her lips to his, catching his lower lip between hers. Gold made a low, inhuman sound of desperation, lunging toward her. Despite being pressed as they were against a solid stall wall, faces framed by cold, rusting rebar, they managed quite a kiss. Belle had been kissed before, she liked kissing. But kissing Gold, _really_ kissing Gold, was another realm entirely. Soft pressure, warmth, and sweet, aching longing . . . She was ready for the teasing stroke of his tongue this time, sweetly opening to taste him. God, he tasted good. Belle framed his lean cheek with her palm, feeling the scrape of his stubble and the slick of his tears. All too soon, he was pulling away, leaning his forehead against hers and breathing in that sweet, humid space between them.

“Go now, little Beauty. And think of me every once in a while, hmm?” Belle uttered a tortured sound, tearing herself away from the stall, burying her burning face in her hands.

“Come on, Belle.” Mei-Xing touched Belle’s arm gently. She managed to nod, to stumble after Mei-Xing as they left Gold alone in the dark, to hold the raincoat over her head with its precious cargo as they moved toward the door. She barely heard his whispered: “Goodbye, Belle.”

Outside, the rain was still coming down in buckets, cold wind plucking at their clothing and the mud doing its level best to swallow their boots. Belle’s hands were numb, wooden things as she locked the padlock and pocketed the key. The slog back to the cabin took considerably longer. Dad was waiting on the porch with his shotgun slung across his lap, looking deliberately casual as dozed under the shade of his Renegades ball cap.

“How did it--”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Belle said. Her voice sounded hollow. She _felt_ hollow, as if she would ring like a bell if someone struck her.

“Belle, darling . . .” Dad said, thick, hoary palms clenching and unclenching in a heartbreakingly anxious gesture. Smote by painful affection, Belle flung her arms around her father, burying her face in his jacket.

“I love you, Dad,” she whispered, feeling the tears well again.

“I love you too, Bells.” They broke apart and Belle managed to smile. The three of them filed inside the cabin and Belle found the Nolan family absorbed in evening tasks. Snow was inspecting each of her arrows, David was checking each of reinforced windows for their sturdiness and Emma squatted before a bucket of rainwater washing their few metal utensils. Phil sat hunched next to the weak light of their battery-powered lantern, pouring over a pistol: a formidable thing with gold grips that shone. The scene seemed a bit too practiced to Belle’s eye, they had been waiting anxiously just like Dad had. Her hollow heart was flooded with a deep, powerful love for these people, tangled with an equally violent disgust. Somewhere in the world was a boy no older than Emma who would be without a father after tonight.

“I’m going to bed,” Belle announced. Emma bounced over to Belle and flung her arms around her.

“It’ll be ok, Belle. You’ll see.” Belle petted Emma’s wild hair and squeezed her tight. Emma had been a wary, wounded little thing, passed from foster home to foster home until the Nolans found her. But underneath was a heart as brilliant and pure as diamond.

“I know, sweetie,” Belle replied, stepping back.

“Snow, David . . . do you mind if I sleep in the attic tonight? I’d prefer to be alone for now.”

“Of course,” Snow replied with a smile.

“Look Belle, I’m . . .” David began, bracing a hand on her shoulder. She held up a hand to stall his words.

“No, David. It’s ok. I’ll be ok. I just . . . I just need to be alone for a while.”

“We’re here for you, just know that,” Snow said.

“I know.” Belle snatched a quick hug from both of them. Phil stood off to the side, cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt.

“So you don’t hate us?” he asked. Belle rolled her eyes and lightly punched his shoulder.

“Of course not. Just give me time. Right now, I need sleep.” Phil’s little smile was like an embrace itself.

“Ok. I’m taking first watch, so I’ll wake you when it’s your turn.”

Belle nodded, bidding everyone goodnight as she climbed the ladder to the attic loft. The stones of the chimney kept the cramped space pleasantly warm as Belle shucked off her boots and shimmied out of her jeans. The Nolans had made a cozy little nest out of a sleeping bag and two tattered blankets. As she settled into the sleeping bag and let the warmth penetrate her numbed toes, a nagging thought, an insidious germ of an idea began to unfurl and grow. By the time Phil shook her awake in the wee hours of the morning, her mind was made up, and she was ready.

“In the man’s gun, was there a bullet in the chamber?” she asked. Phil gave her a look fuddled by fatigue, but nodded, stretching out in the warm space Belle had just vacated.

“Yeah. He must have miscounted his shots. Lucky break, huh? Otherwise he could have got Snow,” Phil said, yawning.

“Yeah, lucky,” Belle echoed, tucking three extra magazines into her pockets, the leather holster snug against her right hip.

“Get some sleep, Phil. I’ll take watch from the porch,” she said, kissing his forehead.

“’Kay,” he murmured, eyes already closing.

From there it was simple. Belle tucked her letter under her Dad’s pillow, tiptoeing over his sleeping form as she loaded her rucksack. Lastly, Gold’s pistol, reloaded with its single shot, she shoved into her jeans at the small of her back. She locked the door behind her, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that the rain had stopped. There was no moonlight, and Belle couldn’t risk a flashlight, so she moved carefully toward the barn. The puddles and mud might be a problem, she thought. A blind man could follow fresh tracks in this muck. Belle heaved open the barn door only wide enough to slip inside.

“Who’s there?” Gold’s voice was harsh and imperious, only barely covering the echo of fear underneath. Belle answered by unlocking the stall door and heaving it open.

“Belle? What the hell are you doing?” The relief in his voice almost made her cry. Belle grabbed his hand.

“Come on. I’m getting you out of here.”


	2. Never Leave Home Without Your Shotgun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mention of rape

Part 2

 

The serrated blade of her knife sliced through the zip-tie binding his wrists. Her hands were shaking as she shoved it back into the sheath in her boot. Gold rubbed the bleeding abrasions gingerly. He made a theatric gesture to his injuries.

“Rotters will be on us quick with me bleeding like this. Give me my gun and my letter, little Beauty, and I’ll take my chances,” he said softly.

“Shut up and come on!” Belle hissed, grabbing a handful of his leather jacket and heading south, their path blocked by the formidable bulk of the barn. Now, if they could just get him off the grounds by dawn, he might just have a chance . . . Mud squelched underneath their boots and Gold’s cane. Belle glanced at him sidelong; in the darkness she could not make out his features, but his measured breaths and painfully determined stride spoke of exhaustion.

Painful thoughts jostled together in her mind: Dad’s face when he read her letter, how would the group react? Would they forgive her for this? They had maybe three hours before her watch was over . . . Belle shoved the thoughts aside and grasped onto the primal, formless fear she had lived under for the last two years since the world ended. Now, she had to think of walkers—and worse—that lurked in the woods.

Her calves began to burn at the strain of slogging through the mud, her breath coming a bit short from the brutal pace she set. Roughly two hundred yards from the barn, the clearing ended, Belle shoved her way through a stand of pine branches into the forest beyond. Gold kept pace doggedly at her heels. The mud gave way to a dense carpet of pine needles, half-rotted leaves and moss. Belle breathed an inward sigh of relief. That would give them another edge. Not even Snow could track well on terrain like this.

Branches whacked their faces, they stumbled over tree roots and rocks, fumbling in the dark as they were, but Belle and Gold soldiered on. They hiked in silence until they reached the barbed wire fence that served as their last line of defense. David had built it in his typical sturdy, thorough style. It ran the perimeter of their lands: basically large enough to protect the cabin and the well that stood nearby. Walker-poisoned water wasn’t an idea they relished.

Belle stomped on the lower two strands and shoved up the upper two, a jerk of her chin signaling Gold to pass through. He did so without demur, holding the aperture open so she could pass. Maine’s dense, mist-shrouded forest pressed in on them on all sides unfettered. Belle raked a hand through her hair. Her jittery, desperate energy was beginning to ebb, and the reality of her situation struck her as if she had run into the proverbial wall. She closed her eyes and sucked in a calming breath.

“What are we doing out here, little Beauty?” There was the faintest underlining of menace in that sentence and Belle stiffened her resolve. She shrugged her shoulders, adjusting the rucksack. 

“We have to keep moving,” she said, striking off. Behind her she heard Gold mutter a curse, but the thump of his boots and his cane signaled his compliance. Uncounted minutes passed as they walked. She knew she had to be close, any minute now . . . There! Belle stopped at a tree, shucking off the rucksack and kneeling under the pretense of retying the soggy laces of her boot. Dad had marked the tree with a symbol carved in the bark, meaningless to an outsider, but to Belle--

It happened faster than she would have thought possible for a man in his condition. Gold wrenched her knife from the sheath in her boot, twisted her arm behind her back and had the blade at her throat in the blink of an eye.

“I consider myself a patient man, but I don’t like being ignored. Tell me what you’re scheming, little Beauty.” His breath tickled the side of her throat, his lips brushing the skin as he formed the words. Belle shuddered, both at the incongruously sensual touch and the cold kiss of her own knife at her throat.

“You see, the thing is--” Belle slammed her elbow back into his damaged ribs, twisting free of the knife and kicking his cane from his grip for good measure. Belle circled him, placing Gold between her and the marked tree. She drew her gun and leveled it at his hunched form.

“ _I_ don’t like being threatened, Mr. Gold.”

“Bitch,” Gold rasped between grunts of pain, arms wrapped around his middle, huddled on his knees with his forehead pressed against the ground.

“Do I deserve your suspicion? I’ve fed you, tended you, set you _free_ \--” The gold handle of his cane snagged her ankle, yanking her feet from under her. Belle’s breath whooshed out of her as he pinned her beneath his weight, hands like manacles around her wrists. Her gun? Where was her--?

“Then you’re just like every other heartless bitch: all smiles and sincerity until you wake up in a strange place missing a fucking kidney!” His sneering scorn cut her to the core. Nameless, ragged terror surged up in her at the sight of a man bearing down on her, pinning her to the ground. Oh God, what had she _done_? She flailed, all of her training with Mei-Xing and David going out the window.

The snarling anger evaporated, replaced with her Gold, the warm brown eyes and soft mouth that had haunted her dreams last night.  

“Belle . . . Belle, easy. Easy now, lass. I’m not going to hurt you.” She quivered beneath him, heart thundering in her chest, eyes wide and terrified. _Ow,_ she’d landed on Gold’s gun; it dug painfully into the small of her back. Wet cold began to seep through her clothes.

“I’m not that sort of monster. I’d never do that to you. To anyone.” Gold’s voice was soft, soothing.

“Let me go, please.” Her voice emerged in a panicked squeak. Gold lifted a brow.

“You promise not to hit me?”

“I promise,” Belle said, nodding furiously. Gold released her hands and sank back onto his haunches, hands spread in a pacifying gesture. A detached part of her mind giggled at the image of his splinted finger, held comically straight like a snob with their pinky in the air.  Choking on a sob, Belle scrambled for her gun, her whole arm quivering as she lifted it. Her lips felt numb, her entire body shaking. Gold’s smile was knife-thin and bitter.

“I suppose I should have specified that you not _shoot_ me, either.”

“S—Stand up,” she said. Gold snagged his cane and climbed laboriously to his feet.

“Take three steps back.”

“Are you to be my firing squad, little Beauty?” he drawled. Through a sheen of furious tears, Belle firmed her grip on her pistol.

“Just do it!” she snapped. Gold obeyed, and through the woven mat of leaves, they both could hear the tell-tale hisses and groans of walkers roused by the commotion. _Hungry_. 

“A hidden pit full of rotters to take care of pesky intruders. Clever idea. Yours?” Gold said, prodding the edge of the mat with his cane.

“My dad’s actually,” Belle said.

“I don’t believe I had the pleasure of meeting him.” _Nor will you, if I have my way,_ Belle thought.

“You want to know why I’ve brought you here, Gold? You said deals are your trade.”

“Yes. Before the world ended, I was a lawyer, pawnbroker, and landlord—among other things. I never break a deal.” 

Belle knew him to be the sort of man who would not break under torture, the sort who wore authority as easily as his leather jacket and carried a gun of high value in any world. He was a leader, and a feared one at that. If she were to broker a peace, it would be with him.

“I have a deal to make,” Belle said.

“I wait on baited breath,” he quipped.

“I give you your life, in exchange for ours. You go back to your people and never speak of us again. You leave us alone.” The sky was getting lighter, a softer black. She could make out the gleam of his teeth as he smiled.

“And if I refuse? You’ll what? Shove me into this pit and let the rotters eat me alive?”

Belle winced, and then answered: “No. I’d shoot you first.” It was the more merciful thing, after all. His laugh was a dry, tired thing.

“You would at that, wouldn’t you Belle?” A long, wrenching silence passed, broken only by the sound of the walkers eager for fresh meat.

“Very well, little Beauty. I will not harm your people.”

“Not good enough, Mr. Gold. You and your people will not directly or indirectly harm, harass, steal from, undercut, sabotage, or betray my people.” Gold chuckled, this time in honest amusement.

“Clever girl. Very well. You want specifics? I swear that neither I nor any of my people will in any way bring misfortune upon you or yours.” Belle’s firing arm fell as if it were weighted with lead. A fierce pride glowed like candle flame in her chest. She had done it. Saved him and her people both.

“Then you are free to go,” she said, holstering her pistol. Gold wagged a finger at her.

“Ah ah, little Beauty. Not so fast.” He took a couple steps away from the edge of the pit.

“What to say there aren’t more to these . . . welcome mats out there waiting for me? You’re going to lead me out of this minefield, or no deal.”

“You’d rather have me shoot you than trust my word?”

“Don’t take it personally. Besides, you _owe_ me. Once for the life of your black-haired friend, and again for yourself. I could have taken your gun instead of the knife and shot you when I grabbed you just now. Or I could have snapped your neck when I had you pinned, but I didn’t.” This was so patently true that Belle could not muster the words to deny him. She fiddled with the strap of her holster, considering.

“My family, my friends, they will all live, if I lead you out? You’ll leave us be?” Gold rested a hand over his heart and bowed slightly.

“You have my word.” Belle nodded.

“Then you have mine.”

 

**ZZZ**

 

Moe woke to a harsh shake. He woke at once and completely, reaching for his shotgun before he had even opened his eyes.

“What? What is it?” he said, lurching upright on his sleeping bag and swiping sleep from bleary eyes. Phil knelt beside him, looking grim.

“Moe, it’s Belle. She’s run off. She freed our guy and ran off.” Hot and cold washed over him, a yawning pit opened beneath him. It was just like when some doctor was telling why his wife was gone. Emptiness and _fear_.

“What? Why would she--” Moe braced his hand on his pallet to stand and felt the crumple of paper. His heart lurched when he saw Belle’s neat, round lettering peeking between his fingers.

“Guys! Belle wrote us a letter!” Phil shouted and all at once David, Mei-Xing, and Emma were crowding around Moe’s pallet. Unfolding the letter—written on the back of title page of one of her books—Moe read:

_Dad (and the rest of you reading over his shoulder),_

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry for running off and scaring you guys. I just couldn’t let this happen. Snow, I’ve heard you say that you can’t come back from killing. It’s true. This man doesn’t deserve to die and we don’t deserve to suffer the guilt of killing him. I plan on making a deal._

_Wish me luck and I love all of you,_

_Belle_

Snow heaved open the door, her bow slung casually over her arm. A gust of fresh, cold air breezed in behind her.

“I tracked them south, but I lost their trail at the treeline. I _think_ they might have gone southeast. We need to—what’s everybody doing?” Emma bounced to her feet, pacing the length of the room in quick, restless turns.

“Belle wrote a letter. Said she wants to save us and she plans on making a deal,” Moe said, standing, clutching Belle’s letter in one hand and his shotgun in the other. God, since Belle hadn’t woken him for his watch, they’d slept through the night. She had at least six hours ahead of them.

“Making a deal? With who?” Snow asked, taking the letter and reading the short message.

“With Gold. He said deals were his trade,” Mei-Xing said.

“Gold? That’s his name? What else did he say?” Phil asked. The Chinese girl darted a quick glance at Moe and shifted her weight uncomfortably.

“Very little. He said we owed him, for Snow’s life. He knew there was a bullet left in his gun, but he spared Snow intentionally.”

“ _Was_ there a bullet left?” David said, turning to Phil, who looked like someone had kicked him in the gut.

“Yeah, there was one left. That’s what she meant! This morning, Belle asked about the gun. She was planning it right then! And I just fell asleep like a moron!” Phil cried, smacking himself in the forehead.

“It’s ok, Phil. You had no idea,” Emma offered, patting his shoulder. Moe snatched Belle’s letter and brandished it, the fear receding into a more comfortable anger.

“While we’re on the subject, what else did this wanker say?” Moe demanded of Mei-Xing.

“Nothing about himself or his people. Mostly he . . . flirted with Belle.”

“ _What_?” Moe’s voice rose to a roar, swiftly hushed by David and Snow.

“Ew. Wasn’t he like, _Moe’s_ age?” Emma said, nose wrinkled in an expression eloquent with disgust. Phil sniggered, hiding his smile in his palm.

“She didn’t seem to mind,” Mei-Xing muttered, looking like she’d bitten into a lemon. There was a similar sour taste in Moe’s mouth. Some middle-aged asshole was _flirting_ with his little girl?

“That’s not important right now. What is important is finding Belle before something happens to her,” David said.

“Right,” Moe said, nodding and mastering the blind emotion with some effort, “Let’s go.”

Watching the group mobilize, Moe felt a rush of affection for these people. None of them except he and Belle were related by blood, but they were a family all the same. Emma chucked food, ammo and other essentials into two separate rucksacks while the rest of the group grabbed their favorite weapons. It was a rule of the group to carry a gun, and also a bladed weapon. As Mei-Xing liked to say: blades never ran out of ammo or jammed or misfired. All you needed was a strong arm and guts.

“We can’t take the van, it would be stuck in the mud in a second,” Moe pointed out, industriously filling his windbreaker pockets with boxes of shotgun shells.

“We can’t all fit in the Honda,” David said, tucking his pistol into his shoulder holster.

“Snow, Mei-Xing and I can go on foot. The rest of you could go in the Honda. Spiral out. She couldn’t have gone far. Not with a cripple slowing her down,” Moe said with a faint, vicious satisfaction. If that sleazy bastard had laid one finger on Belle . . . Moe was drawn from his vengeful thoughts by Snow’s gentle nudge, and accepted the handful of Cookie Crisp Emma offered him. David gave his daughter a glancing kiss on the back of her head, then nodded. Phil shouldered one rucksack and offered Moe the other.

“Ok, let’s do that. Phil, rig up the cabin, I’ll go get the Honda running,” David said. Hugs, handshakes and back slaps were exchanged. They all had made a habit of it in case they never saw each other again.  Moe nodded at Mei-Xing and Snow, both looking lean and capable.

They all filed out of the cabin, watching as Phil worked his magic, disabling the generator and twisting a couple fuses together, arming the booby traps at the door of the cabin and the barn. Mei-Xing scratched a diagonal line on the door with a nubbin of chalk, a warning to any of their group that the security measures were in place. The sky was broodingly overcast, threatening more rain. Moe adjusted his gloves on his hands, zipping up his windbreaker. It was cold enough to merit sleet, if they were lucky.   

“Pop!” Emma shouted, throwing the Honda’s keys. David caught them neatly, slinging the M16 across his back. Phil, Emma and David loped toward the mud-spattered Honda, the fuzzy dice draped around the rearview mirror a blinding contrast to the thick brush guard and barbed wire Phil had rigged on the exterior of the battered green sedan.

The three of them made their way beyond the barn in a single file with Snow at the lead. At the mouth of the barn, Snow squatted down, Mei-Xing and Moe peered over her shoulders at the ground. Moe could see Belle’s footprints clearly in the tacky, black mud. Mei-Xing bent and picked up a zip-tie, smeared with dried mud and rusty blood.

“It’s been cut, not broken,” she said.  The man’s larger footprints were clearly visible, as well as the hole dug by his cane.

“The trail leads this way.” Snow pointed south. Moe squinted hungrily into the distance, hoping to see some sign of her.

“Do you think she might be headed to the well?” Mei-Xing asked as they trailed after Snow. Moe adjusted the loop of twine that served as his shotgun’s makeshift strap, trying not to pant too heavily as they jogged. Their breath gusted in thick white plumes, the tips of their noses and ears already red. Had Belle brought a coat on her mad rescue mission?

“Don’t see why she would. Best guess is that she was heading to the fence,” Moe said.

“Here’s where I lost the trail,” Snow said, gesturing helplessly toward the seamless forest surrounding them. Moe shifted the bag on his shoulders, that bottomless terror twisting his guts into knots. His little girl was out there, alone with a _monster_ , an enemy.

“Keep looking,” Moe said, scanning the ground for any scrap of evidence.

A low gargle was his only warning. An immensely fat walker staggered toward him, still wearing the orange hunter’s vest he’d died in. Bloody teeth snapped, cold, grey hands seizing Moe’s arm with unnatural strength. Smothering his jolt of blind terror, Moe swiveled, leveled his shotgun and fired.  The walker’s bald head fairly exploded at such close range, blood and brain matter flying everywhere.

A skinny female walker was right behind the other, green-glazed eyes wide with mindless hunger. Moe cocked his shotgun with a heavy metal click. A shrill _thwppt_ announced Snow’s arrow a second before the red-fletched shaft lodged in the female walker’s eye. Moe turned to thank her in time to see Mei-Xing decapitate a skinny male walker with a terse backhanded slice. Moe scanned the trees for more, but for now the forest was silent.

“Everyone ok?” Snow asked, stepping past Moe to yank her arrow from the dispatched walker. Swiping it clean on a pad of moss, she returned it to the quiver over her right shoulder.

“Fine. You?” Moe said, swiping walker brains from his sleeve. Snow offered a wobbly smile.

“Ok. Mei-Xing?” The Chinese girl shrugged, flicking blood from her blade and returning it to its sheath.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle. We should find the breech in our fences. We can’t have walkers overrunning the cabin,” she said. Moe clenched his jaw around a stream of curses.

“ _No_ , the priority is finding Belle.” His tone was steely.  Something shifted in Mei-Xing’s black eyes, a flare of something hot that was quickly smothered.

“Belle’s safety is paramount; don’t you think I understand that? But the entire group is in jeopardy if we have walkers roaming free on our lands--”

“The fence will be taken care of,” Snow said, raising a gloved hand to still them both, “ _after_ we find Belle. Come on, let’s focus on finding her trail.”

 

It was Mei-Xing who found their break, after what seemed to be an eternity of staring at rain-battered fern fronds and moss.

“Look! Gold’s cane. You can see it,” she said, kneeling and pointing to an impression no larger than a quarter. Heart in his mouth, Moe crawled a couple paces forward and found an identical divot.

“That’s it. We’ve got ‘em. This way, Snow!” Moe said, excitement and relief intermingling. They’d find her. They would find Gold too, and beat that gimpy son of a bitch to a pulp. Any father would be justifiably angry if some old bastard perved on their beautiful young daughter, wouldn’t they?

A low growl of thunder interrupted Moe’s bleak thoughts. He squinted up through crowded trees to a bruised sky. He collided with Snow, who’d stopped right in front of him.

“Sorry,” he muttered. With a jolt, he recognized the symbol carved on the tree and heard the faint pawings of the trapped walkers.

“She led him here? Did she--” Moe said, biting off the end of his sentence when he saw Snow’s white, distracted face. Moe followed her gaze to the ground and saw faint imprints, a divot made by a hard-turned boot heel. Snow knelt and plucked a long, brown hair from the ground. _Belle_.  

“There was a struggle,” he said, knuckles turning white on the butt of his shotgun. He wasn’t just gonna beat Gold now, no, he’d be spitting out fragments of his teeth and crying for his mother by the time Moe was done with him.

“Yes,” Snow said, pointing to two round impressions roughly two feet apart. Crouching, Snow made two fists and pressed them into the damp ground, making identical dints, though the prints were larger. Man-sized fists.

“He held her down,” Mei-Xing’s voice was soft, and filled with such concentrated menace that Moe wondered if he would have anything to pummel if they found Gold. Mei-Xing might just dice him into nice bite-sized pieces for a walker salad. Snow began to prowl around the clearing, searching for more tracks. Moe met Mei-Xing’s eye and perfect understanding passed between them. Both of them remembered a black night a year ago, another outsider, and Belle.

“When we find them, he dies,” Moe whispered.

“Agreed.”

“Moe, Mei-Xing, this way!” Snow shouted. Moe rose, reloading his shotgun with another shell. He needed to be ready.

 

**ZZZ**

 

Belle and Gold were locked in a silent competition. She’d reached the limits of her endurance hours ago, and only sheer, cussed stubbornness and her odd desire to prove herself to him kept her putting one foot in front of the other. For his part, Gold limped with a weary sort of dignity, grim and dogged beside her. The light of day was unkind to him: she saw every line etched into his face, the hooked nose, the variegated shades of his busted cheek and lip. Beneath the bruises, his face was grey with exhaustion, and dark circles cupped sleepless brown eyes. But he didn’t utter so much a word of complaint, or slow his pace. The leather jacket, jeans and shirt looked the same, but Belle did notice the black leather belt he wore, the empty holster. Gold’s gun was an uncomfortable lump rubbing against her tailbone with each step. She contemplated giving it back to him, but some inner instinct of self-preservation warned her away.

They had crossed the ragged boundary of her group’s claimed forest before the sun rose. Time was hard to judge with the sky overcast and her digital watch a thing of the past, but she would guess it to be mid-morning. Belle knew for sure her group would be awake and mobile now. She _should_ just hand over his gun and the letter and be on her way. But . . . but she didn’t want to. Not yet.

The trees began to thin as they approached the highway. Belle took it as an excuse to stop, shucking off her rucksack and slumping against the rough, damp bark of a tree. It was quite an unusual tree with a broad trunk that split into two separate trunks at roughly the height of her shoulder. It was an easy landmark to identify; she could find her way back from here.

“There’s US 1. It leads all the way to the coast.” Belle said, a bit breathlessly. Belle knelt and unzipped the rucksack, pulling out two bottles of water. She tossed one to Gold. Unscrewing the cap, Belle guzzled the stale, lukewarm well water greedily. Gold gulped his at a more moderate pace, dark eyes speculative.

“Is this where we part, little Beauty?”

Belle shrugged, moving to sit cross-legged with her back against the tree, idle fingers fiddling with the rucksack’s zipper. 

“That was the deal. But first, I’d say it’s past time for breakfast.” She brandished two cans of peaches with a smirk. Gold’s returned smirk mocked hers with its eloquence, especially coupled with that faint jerk of his chin tossing his hair from his eyes.

“How could I refuse such an offer?” he said, easing onto the ground beside her. Belle giggled, stupidly happy he decided to share a meal with her. Pulling her knife from its sheath, she stabbed the lids of each can, prying the edges wide enough to snag morsels from inside.

“What I wouldn’t give for a thick, juicy steak,” Gold said, accepting the can and fishing a wedge of peach from the watery juice.

“You sound like Dad. He’s a carnivore too,” Belle said, slurping down some of the peach juice.

“There’s so much we took for granted before.” Her tone was wistful. The bookworm in her mourned the loss of all that had been. 

“What do you miss most?”

“Indoor plumbing,” Belle replied without missing a beat. Gold chuckled, gold tooth winking as he chewed.

“I miss telephones, and corner stores.”

“And chocolate,” Belle quipped. His long, crooked smile made her heart flip in her chest.

“And music.”

“Oh, music! I miss that. And books. I love books.” Belle pressed her hand to her chest, against the old ache at the thought of all the books left unread and stories left untold.

“There’s an old library in Storybrooke.” A deafening silence followed his words. She saw his face fall, the mantle of the cold shark settling on him.  He hadn’t meant to say that. Belle knew Storybrooke to be a town on the coast. Her group avoided towns at all costs. Towns meant walkers or worse, often in large numbers. So Storybrooke was where Gold’s camp was?

“I won’t break our deal, Mr. Gold,” Belle said softly, sloshing the remnants of her peaches around in the tin can. It was meant as reassurance, but from the corner of her eye, she saw him stiffen even further.

“You don’t need to remind me of the terms of our deal, dearie.” So back to dearie, hmm? She missed him saying her name, or his almost-affectionate ‘little Beauty.’

“Gold--”

Cold, fleshless fingers snaked between the tree’s twin trunks, yanking her back toward a gaping, ragged-toothed mouth. Belle staggered to her feet against the tree’s protection, grasping the flailing arm.  Two more were staggering up from the road behind Gold.

“Fuck!” Gold shouted, jumping to his feet. A profound expression of fear twisted his features. Her knife at her feet and her gun at her hip might as well be on Mars. If she let go of the arm, the walker could bite her. Gold was going to leave her. He was alone, and unarmed, with his freedom beckoning beyond the trees. He was going to make a break for the road and leave her to the walkers.

The two walkers were closer. Gold scrambled around the tree. The sickening crack of bone was horribly close. He was fighting--? Struggling with the jerking arm, Belle’s hand found the grip of her gun. The walker’s dead fingers tangled in some of Belle’s hair and yanked. Belle cried out. Gold howled, striking again and again with the hooked golden handle of his cane.

She twisted free of walker’s grip and drew her pistol. Her first shot at the limping female walker went wide, the next stuck with a juicy _thunk_ in its shoulder. Steadying her shaking hand, Belle aimed for the bridge of the nose and squeezed the trigger. The walker fell, the bullet burrowed into a neat hole in its left eye. The third walker, dressed in a mechanic’s blue jumpsuit, missing an arm, made a swipe at her. Belle’s shot found its mark and he slumped to the ground, finally completely dead. Belle turned to find Gold fighting off a fourth walker, neatly tripping it with his cane then dispatching it with three stomps of his boot. Skull fragments crunched under the thick rubber sole. Gold looked half-crazed, panting, hair wild, and eyes dark and bottomless. He moved faster than any man with a cane should, gripped her forearms with hands slick with blood.

“Were you bit? Are you hurt?” he demanded. The sight of his snarling, blood-splattered face scared her. He’d . . . he’d just killed two walkers with little more than his bare _hands_.

“Answer me!” he shouted, shaking her.

“N-no. I’m fine,” she stammered. He released her, and Belle glanced down at the body of the first walker. Nothing remained of its head but a smear of bloody pulp cupped in the broken gourd of a busted skull. Gold hid a rather impressive strength in that wiry frame.

“Give me back my gun, Belle. Please.” Belle chewed on her lower lip, hand trembling on the grip of her pistol. Gold snorted, the circling shark again with his harsh, brittle smile and the subtle flexing of his hands folded on the grip of his cane.

“Do you really think I’d use it on you? I have one bullet left. One. Do you think I would kill you with it, and have the rest of your group hunt me down and cut me into wee bittie pieces? Please, Belle. It’s mine, I feel naked without it.” Cursing, Belle yanked the gun from her jeans and spun it by the trigger guard, catching the barrel, the metal warmed by contact with her skin.

“Fine. Take it.”

 “Thank you,” he said stiffly. Gold shoved the slide back with expert hands, and, satisfied by the gleaming bronze round neatly housed in the chamber, released it with a metallic _chunk_ and tucked the pistol into his holster. When he looked back up at her, his eyes were softer, more her Gold and not the crazed stranger or the calculating shark. So many faces on this man.

“We should find shelter.” A deafening boom of thunder punctuated his words. Belle tucked her pistol back into its holster and her knife into the sheath at her boot. Grabbing a handful of dead leaves, Gold began scraping the worst of the gore off his cane. The gold handle looked like it had been dipped in red paint. Grimacing, he rinsed off his hands and cane with the contents of his water bottle. He pinned her in place with his gaze, face set in practiced indifference.

“At least wait out the night. It’s not safe for you to travel back alone.” The faintest edge of pleading in his voice was what broke her. The notion of fighting her way back to the cabin alone was a daunting one.   

“Ok. I’ll go with you.” The words were out of her mouth before she could rethink them. Thought was far too taxing on her exhausted brain. Some of the tension fell from his shoulders.

“Good. If memory serves, there is a strip mall just off the highway.” Belle shrugged in reply. It was as good as plan as any. At least then she could rest in safety before facing the return journey.

It was only as they made it to the road and began east that Belle realized they were holding hands. Had she grabbed his hand or he hers? Belle chewed on her lower lip and focused instead on the buckled asphalt under their feet, the crash of thunder overhead and not the warmth of his gentle, callused grip. Anything but what she was beginning to feel for him.

The road was easier to traverse, but both of them felt uncomfortably exposed with the steep inclines leading up to the forest on either side of them. It began to rain again, first in timid spates, then a slow, steady soak.

“Let’s stick to the treeline, hmm?” Gold suggested.

“The ground’s getting really soft. Will your leg be ok?” Belle asked, adding the faintest squeeze on his captive hand to soften the bite of the words. His lips thinned, but in wryness or irritation, she couldn’t tell.

“I’ll manage, little Beauty,” he said softly.

The going was harder as the rain beat down on them, now in dense drops worming down from overhead branches. It seemed as if a small eternity had passed since their impromptu breakfast at the split tree. But, true to his word, Gold kept pace, despite his injuries. Belle was starting to suspect he was built of something tougher than mere flesh. Her own legs were burning and quivering, breathing harsh and raw. The rucksack on her back wasn’t helping. She was faintly grateful she’d thought to wrap the tin cans with cloth before packing them. Otherwise the loud rattling would have every walker within five miles headed their way. To distract herself from her bodily ills, she glanced at Gold’s profile.

“What were you and your friends doing on our land? What were you looking for?” Belle asked, point-blank. Gold arched a brow at her.

“Really, dearie?” Belle rolled her eyes, nudging his shoulder teasingly as she stepped in front of him to traverse a tree trunk bridging a ravine.

“Oh come on! It’s not a state secret, Gold. We might as well pass the time while we walk.” Gold gave a long-suffering sigh, edging across the downed tree gingerly.

“Very well. My companions and I had heard there was a small party making their way toward our camp. A family supposedly, with a girl roughly your age and . . . and a boy they had found. I thought . . . I hoped . . .” This time, grabbing his hand was easy, uncomplicated. To help him across the bridge, of course. His balance looked a little shaky.

“That it was your son?” she said, her voice nearly lost in the rain.

“Aye. But they never showed up. So we went to find them. Rotters drove us into the forest, and . . .” he shrugged, then winced. They made their way up a gentle slope, hands linked.

“I imagine your people told you the rest. Rotters got Tom and Walter, I climbed up a tree, and your girl shot me with an arrow.”

“I’m sorry,” Belle said. With a sharp gasp, Belle remembered the crashed Chevy, and the bodies . . . and the boy walker that had nearly got Dad. She stopped under a thick bower of trees, turning to look at him. The swelling on his face was beginning to go down, the bruises darkening to a deep purple, almost black along his cheekbone. Dark stubble, glinting here and there with a sprinkling of silver, bristled on his lean, angular jawline.

“What is it, Belle?” he asked, frowning. His thumb, rough and warm, brushed over her knuckles.

“Gold, Dad and I, yesterday we found a crashed truck. Walkers got to the family inside. There was a girl my age and a boy--” as pain began to twist his features and tighten his grip, Belle plunged on, “It wasn’t him. Gold, listen!” she cupped his cheek, willing him to hear her.

“It wasn’t him. The only male in the group was small, no older than ten. With blond hair. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Bailey.” Gold yanked her in a crushing embrace. Belle’s heart lurched, only barely suppressing the urge to press her lips to his throat. Instead, her fingers carded through his wet hair, raking tender furrows in the soft brown fringe.  She chanted the words over and over. Belle couldn’t tell when the words became a heartbreak as well as a reassurance. There was someone’s son dead, and another son still lost, still beyond their reach. And no hope for either of them.

“What happened to Bailey?” she whispered, swamped by the scent of blood, leather and musky sweat. It was a very male smell, and not entirely repugnant. Gold released her quickly, and she felt a little bereft. No, it was the cold. She was just cold, damn it. Her Gold was locked away behind his tense façade, brown eyes shuttered and dark.

“I lost him. As I did his mother.” The words were soft, and Belle could hear the warning in them. Twelve-foot blood red letters that read: KEEP OUT. _Fine, let him keep his secrets,_ she thought, _it doesn’t mean anything to me_.  Belle cleared her throat and took a step away from him.

“How much farther?” she asked. Gold squinted at their surroundings, peering through the thin screen of trees to the signs by the road.

“Shouldn’t be too far. I don’t know about you, but I could use a bit of rest.” Belle’s laugh didn’t have enough breath behind it to make much sound. Her boots, some of Snow’s castoffs, were a bit too large. Not a fact she really noticed when she laced her boots tight and wore thick socks, but as sodden and weary as she was, she’d lapsed a bit. Her left heel felt rubbed raw. Not to mention exhaustion, hunger, and the fucking rain doing its damndest to saturate her windbreaker.

“Me too.” She looked him square in the eye when she offered her hand. Let him deny her, push her away. Anything to make their looming separation easier. Gold considered her for a moment, tense and hard-eyed.

“We should keep moving, dearie.”

They spoke little as they hiked, each wrapped in their own thoughts. The rain softened to a dismal drizzle by late afternoon. It would be easy to find her way back, she thought. She and Gold had never moved beyond the sight of the highway. Once she reached the split tree, it was a hike north until she reached the fence. Maybe she’d meet Dad and the others . . . Belle closed her eyes briefly at the thought of her group, and how they would search for her.

Night crept up on them just as they reached the strip mall. A squat line of dilapidated shops crouched before a parking lot spackled with weeds thrust up through cracks in the pavement. Belle mused that she had never been happier to see a nail salon in her life.

“Is it a requirement, I wonder, to have a nail salon, a liquor store, and an insurance agency at every strip mall?” Belle quipped, grateful for the chipped plaster walkway sheltering her. Breath misted in white clouds; she couldn’t feel her fingers. There was still enough light left to make out the shapes of doors, windows. They needed to get inside, and quick.  Gold chuckled.

“It is pretty common, isn’t it? Let’s check the liquor store first. The stuff’s worth more than gold, nowadays.” Belle shrugged, pulling her gun from her holster and holding it loose at her side.

“I could use a cocktail,” she said. Gold grinned, then brandished his cane. He shifted his weight on his good leg, then hooked the handle of his cane on the creaking door.

“Ready?” he whispered, drawing his gun. Belle nodded.

“One, two, three!” Gold said, yanking the door open. Gold stepped in first, scanning both corners. A flicker of his fingers summoned Belle inside. A snarl signaled a walker emerging from between the shelves. Gold fired, and the walker fell.

Together, the two of them combed the liquor store, then the nail salon, and finally the small Mexican restaurant. Belle put down one walker, and Gold another using his cane. _That shouldn’t be as attractive as it is,_ Belle thought. Shades of a Neanderthal mentality. He’s proven he’s strong enough to kill intruders with his club. Belle was helpless against millennia of primitive programming. She shook her head. Why had watching Phil or David kill walkers never affected her so? _Because Phil is like a brother and David simply isn’t your type,_ her mind eagerly supplied. And Belle was left to wonder: And Gold _is_?

“Strawberry daiquiri,” Gold’s Scottish accent caught on the ‘r’ and rolled it through the sentence.

“Say again?” she asked, giving him a hand heaving the heavy bench against the closed door.

They’d decided to bunk down in the restaurant, as it was on the corner, had one door they’d blocked and a high window they could jump through if they needed to. The liquor store, much to Gold’s disappointment, was picked clean, and the nail salon offered nothing useful except a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. Gold had been muttering imprecations in Gaelic ever since they’d settled in.

“Your favorite drink. I’m usually good at guessing. I’d guess something fruity, with a bit of a kick. Strawberry daiquiri, definitely.” Gold said, barricading the door the kitchen too. Belle had ransacked the kitchen once it was clear, and came up with a couple bags of stale tortilla chips and a small tin of refried beans.

Belle shrugged off her rucksack and sank cross-legged to the floor. The seat cushions and dusty ponchos she’d yanked from the walls weren’t much, but they were better than sleeping on cold linoleum in wet clothes.

“Strike one. Guess again,” Belle said, peeling off her damp windbreaker and running her fingers through hopelessly bedraggled hair. At least her feet were dry. Thank God for spare socks.

Gold eased down next to her, heaving a gusty sigh. A couple of green glow-sticks cast their weak, eerie light on their little nest, and Gold’s grin looked exaggerated, like a Joker’s leer.   

“Hmm, let me think. Sweet, then? I bet you like coffee. A White Russian?” Belle wrinkled her nose.

“Damn. You’re like a Sphinx! At least give me a hint,” he said, straightening his bad leg with a grunt. Belle giggled, pulling the clip from her gun and neatly reloading rounds. She remembered when it had been a struggle to get her fingers to master the trick of holding the magazine spring down while she pressed a new round in. She could do it blindfolded now.

“Rum,” she drawled, smacking her lips at thought of a good stiff drink, with ice . . . A profound change settled over Gold. Belle glanced at him warily. His eyes were dark and sleepy, a dangerous smile curling his lips.

“Rum, eh?” His voice poured over her, warm and deep. Belle swallowed hard, slamming her reloaded magazine back in with a bit more force than necessary.

“Yeah. What’s your guess?” Her voice, by contrast, sounded small and squeaky. Gold sank back against the edge of a booth, crunching a few chips.

“Rum and Coke?”

“We have a winner,” Belle said, busying her hands with scooping up bean dip. It tasted oily and a bit grainy, but at least there was flavor. Between what they found and the saltines and canned tuna in her pack, they had quite a feast.

“Try and guess mine.”

“Ok,” Belle said, regarding him through narrowed eyes as she chewed, “Gin and tonic?” Gold grimaced.

“Guess not. Guinness?”

“I’ll have a pint on occasion, but it’s not my favorite. Strike two, little Beauty.”      

“Fine,” Belle said, glaring at him, “Johnnie Walker, blue label. Neat.”

“I’ll be damned,” Gold muttered, rolling his eyes. Belle laughed. She was glad whatever burning tension had eased. In the morning she was going back to her people and he was going back to his. And that would be that. She didn’t need to know what his favorite drink was, or wonder what he tasted like, now that his mouth wasn’t bleeding. They finished their meal in silence.

“You should sleep. I’ll take the first watch,” Gold said softly. Belle felt a moment’s passionate gratitude. She could barely keep her eyes open and her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. She probably looked like Death warmed over.

“Goodnight, Gold,” she said, curling up with her back to him beneath the thin, musty weight of the poncho.

“Goodnight, Belle,” he said.

Belle sank into a sluggish doze. The edges of her thoughts began to soften and fray, her breathing evened, but true sleep eluded her. She was cold. She curled into a ball, shoving her frigid fingers between her knees. The cushions of her makeshift bed were slipping apart and she shuddered away from the sudden chill along her hip and the small of her back.

A sudden warmth curled around her in the form of Gold, spooning behind her. Oh no . . . please not this! Belle uttered a whimper, stiffening and groping for her gun. His hand wrapped around her wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze. His breath was a soft, humid caress against the back of her neck.

“Easy, Belle. You don’t want to bring the rotters down on us with your teeth chattering, hmm? If I was going to do what you think I was going to, I’d have done it already. I told you, I’m not that sort of monster,” his hand ghosted in her hair, a soothing stroke, like how one would comb a sick child’s hair.

“Relax, Belle. You’re safe.” Sleep made her feel slow and stupid. Her muscles were loosening, softening like noodles in boiling water. It felt good being all snuggled up with someone. With Gold.

“Gold . . .” she said, mustering up words of thanks.

“Rum,” he said.

“Huh?” she asked, blearily.

“My name. It’s Rumford.” Something about the glum resignation in his tone made her smile.

“An old family name my mother saddled me with. You can call me Rum. I want you to call me Rum.” His voice was a soft, intimate purr, and Belle felt a bit like a cat herself, limp and lazy and _warm_.

“Rum,” Belle said, just for the pleasure of saying it. The hungry look he’d given her when she mentioned her fondness for rum made sense now.

“Did . . . did something happen to you, Belle?” A knot rose in her throat, remembering a different cold night, Dad’s blood on the ground . . .

“Something happened,” she said. It wasn’t a matter of degree, really. Gold released her wrist and instead knotted their fingers.

“Belle, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s ok.” And it _was_ , she kept telling herself. It was a fucking _year_ ago.

“Dad and I were out on a run with my friend. The one who . . .”

“Busted my face, yes. The lass with the sword.”

“That’s the one. Anyway, it was cold and we were in a shitty little car. Just headed down the road for more fuel for the generator, so we could be warm. We made it to the station, and my friend was pumping the gas with one of those hand pumps, you know? Dad and I were poking around the back, looking for . . . I don’t really remember what we looking for. Then . . .” her voice broke and she shuddered, remembering the juicy _thunk_ of someone hitting her Dad. She remembered turning and seeing— bile rose in her throat to coat her mouth. The man, he’d said something. Something that made her stomach twist and heart plummet, but for the life of her Belle couldn’t recall the words.  

“He was . . . big. I tried to take a shot at him, but he hit me and I went down and there was blood in my mouth. My gun, I couldn’t find my gun and he was clawing at my clothes and he ripped my pants and . . .”

“Christ,” Gold said. Belle couldn’t tell if it was a curse or a prayer. Maybe both.

“Dad woke to my screaming.”

“Did he gut the bastard?” The hushed menace in his tone perversely flattered Belle that he would want such bloody vengeance on her behalf.

“Dad tackled him, beat him up. And then my friend cut his head off.”

“Finally something your friend and I agree on.” Belle’s laugh sounded more like a sob, but she remained dry-eyed. She’d shed enough tears for it. Rum drew her hand up to his mouth and kissed the back of it, gently, tenderly. God, her heart hurt.

“Lay your head and sleep, little Beauty. I’ll watch over you.”

 And wrapped up in him, she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, aren't they sweet? I hope you can still recognize Belle as Belle and Gold as Gold, I tried to get the characterization right.


	3. Rule Number 17: Don't Be A Hero

Part 3

 

“Moe, we have to go back,” Snow’s soft voice floated to him through the rain-sodden twilight. Moe ignored her, braced on his hands and knees, squinting at an impression in the mud, illuminated by the wan yellow bubble of his flashlight. Was that a footprint? Belle’s? Gold’s? Someone else’s? Rain had filled the impression, creating an oblong puddle. They had been headed toward the highway, but why? To meet up with Gold’s people? Had Belle been taken captive when the deal went sour?

 

Ever since seeing those fucking impressions by the walker pit, his imagination had run bloody wild, reinforced by the horrible memory of waking to Belle’s screams. Mei-Xing had been his grim, black-clad shadow, her lean face reflecting all his remembered horror. The three of them had lost the trail, then found it again maybe half a dozen times. Snow could have made a career as a bloodhound in another life, Moe thought with a grim smile.

 

At the split tree, seeing the dead walkers had given him hope. Belle had put down two of them. She was alive, she was unhurt. But when he saw the other two . . . God, Gold had killed them with his _cane_. It was almost funny, how perversely ironic that idea was. And _this_ was the fucking bastard that was with his daughter!

 

“They were headed towards the highway. They can’t be much farther ahead of us,” Moe said, standing.

 

“We have to go back to cabin and meet up with others,” Snow said, her bow held in white-knuckled hands with an arrow knocked. Her voice was calm and low, but consciously so. It wasn’t just the cold that was making her quiver like a doe scenting the wind. The occasional walker had troubled them, but with the three of them it was easily handled. On a moonless night, though, where the rain covered approaching noise . . . 

 

“We can’t stop now! Belle could be--” Moe began, staring into the bland landscape of skeletal trees, willing his girl to appear. Safe, whole. He needed to take her home. He needed to tear apart the bastard that hurt her.

 

“Moe, we have no idea which way they went. We’d be wandering in circles,” Mei-Xing said, leaning against the split tree, her sheathed sword braced in the mud between her hands. A muscle fired in his jaw as fear rose up, clawing at his innards like a hungry walker to devour his heart.

 

“The rain will wash away the trail, and where will we be then? If you two want to go back to the cabin, go ahead. But I can’t . . .” Hot moisture clouded his eyes, and his voice wobbled and broke.

 

“I can’t leave her out here.” Snow and Mei-Xing huddled closer to him, bulwarks against the rising tide of hot, choking grief. Snow clasped his hand, offering a sympathetic squeeze.

 

“We don’t want to leave her either, Moe. Belle’s ours. We’re family,” Snow said.

 

“I’d trade a thousand others for any one of us,” Mei-Xing agreed. 

So the three of them stood at that impasse as night gathered, staring at the now-formless hole in the muck.

 

“I’ll go,” Mei-Xing said suddenly, swinging her sword across her back, “I’ll go back to cabin and get the others. We’ll gather supplies and come in force.”

 

“We don’t go alone,” Snow reminded her, like a stern mother.

 

“There is no better choice, Snow. We cannot leave the others behind. You and Moe must press on and find Belle.  I can take care of myself.”

 

“None of us doubt that, Mei-Xing,” Moe said, gruffly patting the girl’s shoulder. Moe and Snow shared a glance.

 

“Do you have any better ideas?” Moe asked. Snow frowned and shook her head, her thick black braid swaying. From there, the three of them discussed the route they planned to take along the highway, a rendezvous point, and a plan to fall back if the trail went cold. Business concluded, Snow clutched at Mei-Xing’s hands, pressing the flashlight into it.

 

“Be safe,” Snow whispered. Mei-Xing nodded curtly, like a soldier accepting orders.

 

“I’ll be fine,” she said, nodding first to Snow, then Moe.

 

“Find Belle.”

 

“We will,” Moe said, mastering his fear with some effort. He’d find her. There was no coming back without her; that wasn’t an option. With a final nod, Mei-Xing melted into the darkness, the bobbing wave of the flashlight the only clue to her passing. Moe looked at Snow, and saw his exhaustion and fear shared.

 

“If we push through the night, we might catch up with them,” Snow suggested to a weary smile. Moe swallowed the knot that rose in his throat, one of bottled love, relief and gratitude. Moe cupped her cheek briefly, trying to impart all these emotions with the press of his fingers.

 

“Let’s go,” he whispered, groping for the spare flashlight at his belt.

 

**ZZZ**

 

“It’s time for your watch, little Beauty. Wake up. Wake up, now,” Gold’s raspy Scottish voice drew her from the grey fog of dreamless sleep. She stirred, pushing herself up to a seated position. The glow sticks had faded, leaving them in murky darkness. Belle yawned, a hand coming up to try in vain to tame her hair. Left to its own devices, her chestnut curls dried in rebellious waves.

 

“I feel like I could sleep for days,” Belle sighed, stretching her arms over her head.

 

“Any trouble?” Belle asked, pulling her hair over one shoulder to braid it with practiced fingers.

 

“No. It’s been quiet,” Gold said. A pause, with silence ringing in their ears. At least the rain had stopped. Belle finished braiding her hair, using the rubber band around her wrist as a tie.

 

“Do you have any more of those glow stick things?”

 

“Rucksack, side pocket on the right. There should be a couple more,” Belle said, reluctant to leave the fragile warmth of her makeshift bed. Soft rustling noises, the faint sibilant squeal of a zipper, and then the sharp crack of the glow stick. Green light illuminated Gold’s kneeling form. Belle crawled off of the cushions, grateful that her clothes were now merely damp instead of wet.

 

Gold made to rise and step past her to the pile of cushions, but slipped on his bad leg with a muttered oath. Belle caught him, bracing her hands on his chest. Their faces separated by scant inches, they lingered while Belle gulped down increasingly ragged breaths. She recognized Gold’s hot, sleepy look as one of lust, and not unwelcome. A sharp ache was making itself known in her belly.

 

“I would never hurt you,” Rum whispered, brushing her cheek with backs of his fingers. She closed her eyes, leaning into the touch, into the unbearable tenderness.

 

“I know,” she said, choked.

 

“I want to kiss you again, Belle.” Her eyes flew open at those words, hungry for his gaze, his sweet dark eyes the color of strong tea. Rum didn’t leer, or paw, or grin. Instead, he spoke with raw sincerity. Beneath the fabric of his shirt, she felt the lean heat of him, his heart beating swift against her palm. Her fingers moved against her will, kneading his chest in sinuous circles, the pinky finger of her left hand brushing the taut bud of a nipple.

 

“I . . . I want you to kiss me again.” A harsh, broken whine emerged from his throat, a sound of hunger and . . . disbelief?

 

“Belle,” he growled, hands framing her face, fingers tangling in her hair. It would be easy, so easy to lie back, pull him down and let the darkness hide them as they rutted on the floor. It would be easy, it would feel so _good_ , and she wanted to feel good . . . Belle exhaled a shaky breath, leaning her forehead against his.

 

“I can’t. I don’t want to . . .” _fall any more in love with you._ Belle swallowed hard. Inwardly she stared down the truth, fiercely, unflinchingly. She _felt_ for Rumford Gold, felt a great deal too much, felt what could be the seeds of love. It already hurt too much, having to leave in a few hours. If they made love . . . there was no way in hell she would ever stop fighting for him.

 

“To debase yourself with me, I understand.” The tone was hard, brittle, but his grip and breath were still gentle, still warm and sweet and _Rum_. God, peeling back those hard outer layers was like deciphering a code. Every word he said or didn’t say held a new meaning. He might believe what he said, but he didn’t hold it against her.

 

“I don’t want to leave you,” she whispered, fingers wadding the fabric of his shirt. The words hung in the air between them. The light of the glow stick felt too bright, intrusive. Belle wanted to confess in darkness and silence. Rum shifted a little, nuzzling her cheek with his nose.

 

“I can’t have you in Storybrooke.” Belle shivered at the feel of his warm breath ghosting on her cheek and the shell of her ear.

 

“I can’t leave my family.” They both sat in the ringing silence. His people before him, hers behind, and the two of them stuck in the middle.

 

“You should sleep. I’ll keep watch,” Belle said at last. All manner of nuzzling and holding ceased. When Gold pulled back, his expression was unreadable.

 

“Yes. Goodnight, little Beauty.”

 

“Goodnight, Gold.”

 

As he settled on the pallet with his back to her, Belle swallowed the hot knot in her throat. They’d taken two steps forward, then three steps back. The glow stick faded and the night was quiet save for the soft exhalation of Gold’s breaths and the rain drumming on the roof. Belle drew her gun and paced the perimeter of their shelter, caught between restlessness and exhaustion. Papa and the others were probably out there looking for her. Slogging through the rain, cold and hungry and afraid . . . with a blinding stab, she realized now what Gold felt about his boy. Probably for every minute of every day since they’d been separated. Belle slapped her palm against her thigh in frustration. She didn’t need to have any more insights into Gold’s struggles, or his loves. In a handful of hours, the sun would be up and they would go their separate ways.

 

“And the world will keep turning,” she muttered. Yes, she was attracted to Gold, she liked him. Big deal. She’d been attracted to men before. Sometimes it fizzled after flirting, sometimes they parted amicably, sometimes they became her close friends, like with Phil. There were more important things than whatever was growing between them. Food, fuel, ammo, clothing, weapons and medicine. That’s what mattered now. She needed to convince herself of that fact. She had almost succeeded by the time the sky lightened into a gloomy, overcast dawn.

 

“Gold, wake up. It’s morning,” she said. But instead of shaking his shoulder like she meant to, she ended up stroking his hair. Gold murmured sleepily, rolling over and gifting her with a singularly sweet smile. A similarly big, stupid smile stretched on her own face, until she snapped out of it. The smile fell from Gold’s face in the same instant; his eyes taking on the dangerous glitter Belle had seen when he traded quips with Mei-Xing.

 

“I do thank you for not sneaking away in the night. Waking to a rotter chewing on your leg would be less than pleasant.”

 

Belle exhaled heavily through her nostrils, choosing not to rise to his bait. Gold rose with the aid of his cane, and Belle swung her rucksack onto her back.

 

“How far to your camp?” Belle asked, the mental image of him walking alone and essentially unarmed disturbing her. Gold folded his hands over the handle of his cane.

 

“Not far. I’ll keep my word, dearie. Don’t worry your pretty head.” Her temper flared at his dismissive, condescending tone.

 

“Don’t be an ass, Gold. Here, take it,” Belle said, flipping her knife in her hand and offering him the hilt. He looked from the knife back to her, arching an expressive brow. Belle poked him in the chest with the hilt, her loose grip on the blade saving her hand from cuts.

 

“You’ll need more than your cane to make the rest of the journey. Take it.” Gold accepted the knife and inspected it, a cheap hunting knife as long as Belle’s hand.

 

“It’s chipped,” he said, nodding to a small sliver near the point.

 

“Yeah, I chipped it on the first walker I put down,” Belle said.

 

“You can hardly see it.” Gold nodded, before tucking the blade through his belt.

 

“Thank you,” he said. Together, they moved the fortifications blocking the door and stepped into the grey, rain-washed morning. A dense, soupy fog clung to the ground, muting sounds and blurring shapes.  A stiff, uncomfortable silence fell between them, neither one meeting the other’s eye.

 

Belle addressed the crumbling plaster overhang in a small voice: “Goodbye.”

 

“Goodbye,” he answered. Belle drew in a breath and let it out, shakily.

 

“Don’t die,” she said, turning on her heel toward the forest and the cabin waiting beyond.

 

“Stay safe, little Beauty.”

 

The first step was the hardest. He felt like one of hers. It felt like there could be something precious growing between them. As such, that first step felt like abandonment. The blinding stab of guilt hadn’t eased on the next step or the next. No, she wouldn’t look back. Belle glanced over her shoulder. His straight back and halting gait made him look dignified—a dignified gentleman in a black leather jacket and jeans. Belle quickened her pace. The sooner the fog swallowed him, the sooner her chest would stop hurting. Belle kept walking. The pain and guilt hadn’t eased yet, but she had to believe it would. She had to hope that she hadn’t just sent him to his death. _He killed half a dozen walkers with a_ cane _. He can take care of himself,_ she thought. Time passed and Belle kept walking, pushing away cold and tiredness by force of habit. 

 

The strip mall had disappeared behind a bend in the road by the time Belle heard it. A deafening rumble, the _whoosh_ of rain-slicked tires. A _car_. Belle burst into a sprint for the cover of the trees. It wasn’t her people. The car was coming from the opposite direction, from the direction of Storybrooke. Not enough time to make it to the treeline. Instead, Belle dove into the ditch alongside the road, crouching in a knee-high bed of overgrown weeds. She huddled low to the ground, trying to steady her breathing. Through the yellowed stalks, she saw a battered brown truck round the bend. The old engine coughed and sputtered—God, they would have every walker within two miles on them! Belle squinted at the truck’s cab. Who could it be?

 

The truck roared blithely past Belle, disappearing in the mist. Belle waited, her heart in her throat. When all remained still and silent, she glanced back the way she had come. The walkers would stumble blindly after that loud noise. Directly into Gold’s path. And all he had was a _knife_. Belle muttered a string of curses and broke into a jog, heading back the way she came. She just had to be sure he got back to his people.

 

Their deal would be forfeit otherwise.

 

 

She stopped in the parking lot of the strip mall, bent double and sucking down gulping breaths. Scattered walkers were lurching in her direction, ponderous and stupid. Ignoring them, she tightened her sweaty grip on her pistol and began to jog again.  Summiting a shallow hill, she almost ran into a male walker, half his face rotted off, leaving only chipped, bloody teeth and one rolling eye. He smelled of rotted flesh and moist decay. Belle grunted, before shoving the barrel of her gun under the walker’s chin and firing. The walker crumpled at her feet and Belle cursed upon seeing maybe a dozen walkers making their shambling way toward her.

_Do the brave thing,_ she thought, breaking into a weary run. _And bravery will follow._ The words did little to settle the terror clawing at her bones, the primal fear of a trapped animal or the frantic fear for a lost friend. As her eyes scanned the walker-infested, mist-shrouded road in front of her, her heart lurched. _Where was he?_ With a sudden, bleak amusement, Belle considered the possibility that the truck had been Gold’s people and he was safe. He could be safe and she’d sprinted off on a suicidal rescue mission—

 

She glimpsed a flash of black in the trees. Moving too fast for a walker.

 

“ _Gold_!” Belle said. A fresh burst of adrenaline sang through her veins, carrying her on winged feet down the slope, through the ditch and up the incline toward that wayward flash of color. Her rucksack slapped against her back with each stride, but the pistol felt hot and keen in her grip. Breath sawed in her lungs, heart fluttering and blood singing in her ears. A child walker leapt at her. She shot without hesitation, the bullet leaving a steaming hole in its forehead. Belle jerked her head this way and that, the trees a monotonous blur save for the approaching walkers.

 

“Gold!” Belle shouted.

 

A rough spate of snarled words reached her ears, barely comprehensible through a thick, Scottish brogue. Belle found a gravel path, leading up to a house. Gold stood beside the battered mailbox, surrounded by walkers. As she watched, he brought his cane down with a double-handed heave on the head of a hulking brute of a walker. The gold handle stuck in the skull and trying to free it, he stumbled backward over the body of one he’d already killed.  He fell on his back, scrambling in dead leaves and blood-matted earth. A female walker swiped at him, only to end up with Belle’s chipped knife buried to the hilt in her temple.

 

Belle swooped under a tree branch, lunging toward him only to be brought up short. She was yanked backward by a clawing branch. Tearing free of the pack, Belle took a steadying breath, dropping to one knee as she aimed. The walker behind Gold. She squeezed the trigger and watched the walker’s head explode like an overripe melon. Grim satisfaction filled her.

 

“Belle?” Gold’s shout was part relief, part incredulity and all fear. She approached, dispatching first one walker, then another.  A dislodged shell hit her on the nose, the third singed her forearm. The rising heap of dead walkers consoled her. Her gun clicked empty and the fear rushed in. Hands shaking, she released the magazine, clawed in her pocket for a full one and tamped it in. She shoved back the slide just as a walker swung at her. Thrusting the barrel into that yawning, drooling mouth, Belle fired. She scrambled toward where Gold lay, yanking him to his feet by a handful of his leather jacket.

 

“Come on!” she said. They staggered up the cracked concrete steps of the porch and Belle turned, catching sight of her abandoned rucksack. All of her food and supplies and--

 

“I’ll be back!” Gold looked at her as if she had grown another head, clutching at her arm.

 

“Belle, what the fuck are you doing? We need to get inside!” Walkers, drawn by the gunfire, had rapidly replaced all the ones she’d killed. A ring of grey, soulless faces lurched toward them, hissing in anticipation of fresh, hot meat.

 

Shaking free of his grip, Belle swung over the porch rail, landed wrong and was pitched forward on her knees. _Ow_ , her right ankle throbbed where she’d turned it. A walker clawed its way from the crawlspace beneath the house, snapping at her. She put it down. She darted between two, dispatching another as hands latched around her ankle. 

 

“Belle! What are you _doing_? We need to get out of here!” Gold sounded frantic, and a quick glance over her shoulder found him in the yard teeing off on another walker with his cane. Almost there . . .  Belle sprang for the pack, snagging the arm loop with her fingertips—cold, dead arms wrapped around her torso, hauling her back toward a yawning mouth. Belle shrieked, hunching away from the bite that would kill her. Belle watched the walker’s left eye bulge and then saw the wet red tip of a knife. The walker’s body shuddered and sagged, a stinking, lifeless weight on her back. Gold hauled her to her feet, his face a mask of black, snarling rage.

 

“Give me that,” he growled, snatching her gun from her hand. A ripple of true fear ran through her as Belle watched him dispatch walkers. The ferocity of his other kills couldn’t touch the sheer remorseless calm that held him now, an icy, predator’s cruelty. In an odd, lurching gait they made their way to the porch, Belle clutching her pack and propelled by his bruising grip on her arm. With a jolt, she realized he’d left his cane lodged in the head of a female walker in his haste to save her.

 

“Get inside, find a room we can blockade,” Gold snapped, hurling her into the entryway, dead leaves crunching beneath her. Shaking and numb, Belle scrambled to obey as Gold fired off a couple more rounds, clearing a path to retrieve his cane. There was a reason he’d kept a gun like his after the world went to hell. The man was a magician with a handgun. Gold heaved the storm door closed, and jerked his chin toward the sofa.

 

“Help me with it.” They muscled the sofa across the doorway. The few remaining walkers dumbly swatted at the door. The familiar rhythm of barricading a sleeping space helped push away the terror gnawing at her gut.

 

“My gun, Gold,” Belle said, holding out her hand. Gold regarded her through narrowed eyes. Belle felt as if she was naked in a snowstorm under his ruthless, stranger’s eyes. He returned it to her without comment. Oh God, what had she done? Why had risked her life to save a stranger? And this grim Gold was certainly a stranger. Now she was even farther from home, low on ammo with walkers at the door. Belle mastered the spiral into despair and terror with a long, shaky breath.

 

Together they moved through the house, dispatching errant walkers and fortifying the doors. The house’s former owners had obviously tried to secure the place: all the windows on the first floor were heavily boarded and heavy padlocks graced the doors. Their demise had come in the form of a poorly fortified door to the basement. She and Gold heaved a bookcase in front of it. The two of them didn’t speak until they were locked in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Their escape route lead out the window along the roof to a helpful tree. 

 

Belle’s eye wandered over the peeling wallpaper decorated with pink and red roses, the narrow, metal-framed twin bed covered with a little girl’s fluffy pink comforter, and Gold, wiping the gore from his cane with the cuff of his leather jacket.  They sat strategically separated by her pack on the thin, shabby green carpet. Belle sat with her arms wrapped around her upraised knees, her gun dangling from one hand. Outside, the clouds were beginning to fray and tear, letting rich golden sunbeams peek in.

 

“I hope it was worth it,” Gold said at last, and Belle breathed a sigh of relief at the end of this nerve-shredding tension.

 

“Was what worth it?” she asked, very gently. With a deal-maker like Gold, this conversation was bound to be a minefield. Gold’s brown eyes were dark and flinty.

 

“Don’t play stupid, it doesn’t become you,” he snarled. He rose and paced in a tight circle around her. God, he was trembling he was so angry. Belle stood, wrapping her arms around herself to brace against the sudden chill. His glare was baleful. His mouth twisted in an ugly smile.

 

“Although you might be just that. Fucking stupid. A stupid, reckless _idiot_ woman,” he sneered. Swallowing her hurt, Belle jabbed a finger at him.

 

“Watch your mouth, Gold!” she snapped. One of his thin brows rose.

 

“Watch my mouth? Someone needs to call you out on your psychotic bullshite!”

 

“ _Psychotic_? Well that’s rich, coming from you! I saved your life! You’re fucking welcome!” Belle argued, closing the gap between them to drill a finger into his chest. Ablaze with anger, Gold snatched up a tin can that Belle had taken from her pack for lunch and brandished it under her nose.

 

“Aye, aye, you did dearie. And then you risked _your_ life on a couple cans of fucking _peaches_!” He hurled the can down like a gauntlet between them. The can, sporting a large dent, rolled sullenly on the carpet.

 

“I didn’t have any choice! It had all of my--” Belle began. Gold’s face twisted into an expression of extreme disgust: “Fucking idiot! I can’t believe you’d--”

 

“Bae’s letter was in there.” Belle’s words were soft, but devastating. Gold’s anger dissolved, his face crumpling like paper. Silence rang between them, save for the harsh sawing of Gold’s breathing.

 

“Damn you,” he whispered, and surged toward her.

 

His mouth crashed against hers and Belle could only think: _Finally!_ Clumsy, artless, teeth clicked and lips fumbled. Belle framed his face between her hands, stubble rasping her palms. Lips and tongue pleaded for her acceptance which she surrendered with a smothered moan. Forced by his momentum, she staggered back until her back pressed against the wall. Gold’s fingers plunged into her hair, cupping her skull to control the depth and angle of the kiss. Pleasure shimmered through her, trickling down from their linked mouths, even though closer contact was muted by thick layers of clothing.

 

“Never—do that—again,” Gold’s voice was deep and velvety, a lover’s croon spoken between hungry kisses. His sobbing, shuddering breaths wafting warm and fragrant on her cheeks and his tense, fevered grip betrayed fear, not anger. He’d been afraid for her.

 

“Too close—too close to losing you, Belle,” he said. Belle’s assent emerged in a broken little sound, part mewl, part apology. Her hands moved to soothe, to comfort, stroking his neck, the tense line of his shoulders.

 

“I’m sorry. Oh Rum, I had to come back. I thought they’d kill you,” she whispered, stealing another kiss, hungry for more of the elusive taste of him. His groan buzzed deliciously against her lips.

 

“Belle,” he said, showering her forehead, eyelids, cheeks and chin with tender little kisses. Belle whimpered, melting into a puddle of molten surrender. His leather jacket frustratingly muted the feel of his shoulders and back. Belle made a muffled sound of dissatisfaction, tugging weakly at the collar. Rum gently nipped her lower lip, eyes sleepy and dark as warm fingers teased the zipper of her coat. He stopped, a gentle question hidden in the gesture. Belle offered a wobbly smile and did the brave thing, shrugging out of her windbreaker. Rum stilled, chest heaving, lips parted, hair mussed. He looked hungry and wild, but in his sweet brown eyes, Belle saw tenderness . . . and fear.

 

“Belle . . . are you sure?”  Belle’s hands shook a little and she closed her eyes briefly, locking the memories in a closet in her mind.

 

“Come here,” she said, yanking him close by a handful of hair at his nape. They plunged into a hungry kiss, tongues tangling in a secret joust of mutual welcome. Rum’s restless fingers combed her wild hair; the tie lost somewhere and her braid was unraveling. They broke apart, eagerly sucking in air.

 

“Christ, Belle,” he cursed, dropping messy kissing on her jaw, her throat.

 

“I want you. I have from the moment I saw you. An angel with a can of green beans.” He bit the muscle joining her neck and shoulder and Belle swallowed a scream. God, she loved his mouth on her. Rum made a low sound of approval in his throat. Oh now he was suckling on her throat . . .

 

Belle moved, seeking his mouth, but missed and kissed his jaw instead. Mmm, the taste of his skin was addicting. _He_ was addicting. His statement was unequivocally true, judging by the hard lump in his jeans. She nestled against it, nearly purring at the evidence of his desire. Belle wormed her hands into the warm space between his jacket and shirt, feeling the coiled tension in his back. She scraped her nails up his back, yearning for the feel of naked skin. Rum groaned, arching into the touch. His hands gripped her shoulders, eyes pleading and urgent.

 

“Belle, I . . . I don’t want you to regret it.”

 

And with that, Belle _knew_. She loved this man, his danger and his brokenness, his tenderness and his fear. Golden sunlight seeping through a dirty windowpane caught the shine of silver in his hair and beard stubble, highlighted the sharp angle of his jaw and hooked nose. It was a face of character, interesting and complex, like the heart and mind it hid.  

 

“Just kiss me,” she said, dragging him close. Something caught fire in his eyes, and he stood radiating heat and need. His hand floated up to cup her cheek, gingerly, almost shyly.

 

“Belle,” he whispered. Belle covered his hand with her own, her heart beating a heavy rhythm of hope, terror and love.

 

“Rum.” Their lips met and mated, wondrous with the fresh discovery of mutual wanting. There was magic in his kisses, breath-stealing skill in the sinuous flicks of his tongue, melting tenderness in the trembling care of his hands as they smoothed over her shoulders, her back, her buttocks. Belle pushed the leather jacket from his shoulders and he shrugged it off, not relinquishing her mouth. When he finally let her breathe, it was only to press open-mouthed kisses on her cheek, her temple. A sharp cry left her when he sucked on her earlobe. And his hands, God, when had he unfastened her bra?

 

“Good? Is that good, love?” he purred against the shell of her ear, fingers plucking at her nipple. Belle nodded furiously, panting too hard to speak. As a blushing virgin in college, she didn’t remember things being this intense. Then again, Greg Aston hadn’t been a very solicitous partner—Rum nipped a particularly sensitive spot on her neck. Smothering a yelp, she shoved him back towards the bed. He looked like a bad boy out of an old movie draped over the flowery duvet, shaggy hair, leather and an erection trapped in his jeans.

 

“Take off your pants,” Belle said, the sultry affect a little lost when she toed out of her boots, wincing a little on her hurt ankle. Rum’s long, sly grin wavered.

 

“You all right, love?” Belle smiled. _Love_ , oh she liked that name best.

 

“Never better,” she said, pulling her sweater over her head and shrugging out of her shabby bra. Sexy lingerie went by the wayside when the world ended. The chill of the room assaulted her skin, raising gooseflesh. Freshly stripped to nothing but his boxers, Rum’s hands fisted in the duvet, a sudden stillness settling over him. The bandage on his shoulder and the hasty splint of his pinky had held, Belle thought with nervous inanity.

 

“Christ, Belle. You’re beautiful.” Spoken in that low, drawling voice, breathless with sincerity, Rum’s words made Belle’s heart pound and fresh arousal trickle through her. Hungrily, her eyes devoured the tanned skin, the wiry musculature sparsely peppered with hair, the curves of his ribs and hipbones. Shoving down her jeans, Belle approached him clad in nothing but her dark blue panties.

 

“So are you, Rum. Beautiful,” she whispered, bracing her hands on either side of him before leaning in to kiss him. She felt light, free, almost giddy with joy. She hadn’t felt this good in a long time, if ever. She could forget about the hordes of undead and how many bullets she had left. Here, there was only her and Rum. He pulled back, looking at her with a dazed sort of wonder, like a man who had fallen asleep starving and woken to find a feast.

 

“Come here to me, Belle,” he said, guiding her to straddle his thighs, hands framing her hips. Belle leaned down for a kiss, which he returned briefly.

 

“Let me taste you, love,” he whispered against her lips. Belle whimpered, mutely nodding in assent.  As Rum’s mouth moved over her skin, it felt as if he was unraveling her sanity, assaulting her with pleasure. His tongue flicked over a nipple and she sucked in a gasp, fingers gnarled in his hair. Warm, callused fingers danced down her belly, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties to cup her mound. A detached part of her mind noted that there was something incredibly erotic about the image of a man’s hand—Rum’s hand—shoved down her panties.

 

“Yes, oh yes. Belle, yes love . . .” His middle finger parted her folds, finding a well of heat and moisture.

 

“Such a good love, so wet for me,” Rum crooned, breathing air-soft kisses between her breasts. Belle arched into the touch, stifling a cry as his finger found her clit. He rumbled low in his throat, looking wicked and delicious with his lips around her nipple and his dark eyes looking up at her.

 

“Rum,” she breathed. Belle shuddered and whimpered as his callused fingers caught her clit, rubbing in slow, delicious circles . . . her climax ambushed her in a blast of heat and molten pleasure. A wet suckling sound roused her, Belle opened her eyes to see Rum sucking her juices from his fingers, eyes catlike slits of smug enjoyment.   

 

The sun behind him made his hair shine, God he looked so beautiful and happy smiling down at her. Dazed, Belle hadn’t noticed when he rolled her beneath him on the bed.

 

“Please . . . Rum, please,” she whispered. Desperation caught fire in his eyes, made his hands clumsy as he peeled her panties from her and hurled them away. His boxers met the same fate. Belle willed life into her pleasure-sapped limbs, drawing him down to her.

 

“Belle,” he said, and she nearly purred at the sensation of so much naked skin pressed together.

 

“Rum, please. I want you . . . I want you in me,” she said against his mouth. Rum groaned, his kiss a messy, glancing thing as he lined them up.

 

“Look at me, love. Look at me,” he said, cupping her chin. His accent had thickened, she could barely make out the words. A delicious shudder wracked them both as he slid home, the heat and hardness of his cock filling her up. So _good_ . . . Pressed heart to heart, drowning in each other’s eyes, they found their rhythm. Belle clutched and kissed him, pleasure blurring the edges of her vision. She wanted to hold onto this: this shining moment of perfection forever. She wanted to remember how thick his cock felt in her, how his sweat tasted as she fastened her lips to his shoulder to muffle her cries, how her name sounded on his lips. Rum quickened his pace. The old iron-framed bed squeaked and shuddered under their thrashing.

 

“Oh yes, oh Belle . . . come for me, love. I need you to come!” Wrecked and desperate, he had never looked more beautiful to her. She could feel the shimmer of pleasure dancing, building. She reached between them to rub her clit in time with his thrusts. Rum threw his head back and came in hard, pulsing spurts inside her. That sensation, combined with his frenzied bucking dragged her with him into pleasure-soaked oblivion.

 

The words of her newfound truth waited on her tongue, but as her heartbeat slowed and the pleasure receded, the facts that had separated them this morning were still true. Belle pushed away those thoughts, twining her limbs around Rum and dropping messy kisses on his temple and forehead. She would hold onto him as long as she could.

 

**ZZZ**

 

The strip mall alongside the highway held their first real clue of Belle. Moe and Snow had staggered through the night, crouching and squinting at each dent in the mud until their hands were numb and their eyes watered. Half the night it seemed, was spent trying to find the damn trail again after they’d lost it for the eight thousandth time.

 

As dawn broke and lengthened toward midday and they saw the first sign of human habitation in untold hours, Moe felt an immense relief. Snow was likewise grey-faced and trembling, her usually cheerful demeanor replaced with a look of blind endurance.

 

“Snow,” Moe said, in a voice like gravel and dried leaves. His shotgun had never felt heavier, or his bum shoulder—the vestiges of an old rugby injury—more painful. The younger woman’s blue eyes blinked at him owlishly. Moe pointed at the walker corpse crumpled in the doorway of the strip mall’s requisite liquor store. Snow’s eyes flared wide, and together they jogged the remaining paces to the strip mall’s dilapidated parking lot, mist clinging to their ankles. Adrenaline pumped through his weary body, giving him a fresh jolt of tense, jittery energy. Enough to sweep through the strip mall at Snow’s shoulder until they struck pay dirt in the corner store. A grateful cry left Snow’s lips as she snatched up the spent glow-sticks.

 

“Belle’s,” she breathed, squeezing the bent plastic as if it were a precious talisman. Tears of relief squeezed out of the corners of his eyes and he grabbed Snow in a quick, fierce embrace, her giddy laugh half-smothered by his musty coat. Stepping back, Snow circled the restaurant, like a hound searching for a scent.

 

“They must have bunked down here for the night,” she said. 

 

“Then they’re still maybe half a day ahead of us.” Moe nudged the empty cans of tuna with the toe of his boot.

 

“Two of each,” he continued, “She’s still with Gold. And sharing her food.” With a half-pained sound, Moe eased onto the cushions heaped on the floor. Snow took her ease beside him, her bow draped over her knee. For a long moment, they stared at the broken glow-sticks and empty tuna tins as if they would jump up and point in the direction Belle had gone.

 

“What kind of deal do you think she made with him?” Snow asked, her chin balanced on her upraised knee.

 

“Hell if I know,” Moe said, scratching his brow underneath the brim of his ball cap, “Knowing Belle, probably something along the lines of our safety in exchange for his freedom.”

 

“But--” Snow began.

 

The squeal of tires outside brought them to zinging alert. Snow knocked an arrow and rose to a kneeling position, Moe lurched forward into a crouch, hefting his shotgun at the half-open door and the thump of shut car doors. As he did so, he accidentally kicked a tuna tin; it rattled horribly on the linoleum.  Over the pounding of their hearts and the desperately smothered breaths, they heard a male shout from outside: “The Catcher!” Relief loosened Moe’s joints.

 

“And the Rye!” he replied, taking a step toward the door. Phil’s grinning face appeared in the doorway.

 

“Moe, don’t take this the wrong way, but you would make a horrible ninja,” he said, jerking his chin toward the still-rolling tuna tin.

 

“Fuck you, Chevalier,” Moe said, addressing the younger man by his surname as he stood. Phil laughed, dragging an arm around Moe. The smile fell when he saw Snow, concern puckering his brow. 

 

“Oh Snow, you look as bushed as Mei-Xing. She crashed the minute we were on the road.”                   

 

Any deeper conversation was forestalled when David shouldered his way past the two of them to hold Snow, the two of them heaving a mutual sigh of relief and contentment. Moe and Phil shared a commiserating glance. Being around two people as crazy in love as the Nolans for any span of time was a bit nauseating. Moe and Phil stepped outside. Emma sat on the hood of the Honda, her pistol resting on her thigh.

 

“Hey Blondie,” Moe said, with a tired wave. Emma’s smile was like the sun rising.

 

“Hey old man,” she replied with a toss of her blond curls.

 

“Your mom’s a fuckin’ Amazon, kid. She set the pace all night. Felt like a bloody death march,” Moe said, caught between the desire to curl up next to a drooling Mei-Xing and sleep until next Tuesday, and the fiercer, more potent need to _find Belle_. Emma sat up a little straighter, radiating pride.

 

“Nolans kick all kinds of ass,” she said, smirking.

 

“And Chevaliers,” Phil said, then nodded diplomatically toward Mei-Xing, “and Fas.” A wry glance at Moe before he added, “And Frenches.”

 

“Especially Frenches,” Moe concluded, thinking of the lost, female half of the remaining French family.

 

“Did you guys have trouble with walkers after that truck passed?” Phil asked. Moe scowled. David and Snow emerged into the parking lot, both looking more centered, save for the fresh frown Snow wore.

 

“What truck?” Snow asked.

 

“Pop had to haul ass off the road until it passed. A ton of walkers followed the noise,” Emma said, hopping down from her perch. Snow pursed her lips, arching one finely shaped brow at her daughter.

 

“Watch your mouth, young lady,” Snow chastised gently, all but smothering the words with a tight hug.

 

“Mom.” Emma returned the embrace, then broke away just as quickly, chin tucked to hide her sniffles behind a curtain of hair. An almost embarrassed silence fell. With a dull jolt, Moe realized this was the longest Emma had been separated from her mother since the world went to hell. No bloody wonder why she was a little emotional. Moe cleared the hot knot in his throat and answered Phil’s earlier question: “We didn’t have any trouble. Did you see who was in the truck?” The group relaxed, eager to focus on the present search.

 

“Not really,” Phil said, “I _think_ there was a guy driving. Black hair, beardy. No Gold, and no Belle, from what I could tell.” Moe nodded, digesting the information.  

 

“All right, what’s the plan Moe?” David asked. Moe clenched his jaw against a quick surge of emotion. David was their unofficial leader, yet he deferred to Moe in this. And he was willing to stake his own life and the lives of his family—every mismatched, ragtag member of it—on what had once been Moe’s duty alone. So the five of them sat ringed around Moe as he sketched a primitive map with a nubbin of chalk on the Honda’s hood.

 

“Ok, so our best guess is that Gold’s camp is in the town here, along US 1--” He drew a circle, then a straight line toward it. An X marked the strip mall, and another, farther one marked the split tree—Belle sightings, or rather, sightings of Belle’s stuff.

 

“Judging from the path Belle took. Now, the trick’s gonna be how we get near the camp without Gold’s people finding us.”

 

“The trick will be finding where in God’s green creation _Belle_ is in all that mess,” Phil said, gesturing to the blob representing Gold’s camp, his face a mask of tense concentration behind the lenses of his glasses.

 

“Yeah. That’s even if they’re _going_ to Gold’s camp. What’s to say Belle didn’t deal for supplies or weapons or something?” Emma asked.

 

“From what I can see Blondie, if the goal was supplies, they would have made a rendezvous point for the exchange. Why risk slogging through mud and walkers when a simple agreed-upon spot would do it?” Moe said, and Emma nodded.

 

“Could Belle be Gold’s captive?” David asked, square jaw locked at the thought. Moe closed his eyes, trying to ward off the phantom pain of a year-old failure. Trying, and failing.

 

“At the walker pit on our land, we found that Gold had held Belle down at some point. So yeah, that’s a possibility.” A horrible, crushing silence followed those words. Moe couldn’t look anyone in the eye. He couldn’t look and see the reflection of their horror, or their rage. His own was blinding enough already.

 

“But . . .” Snow began, her voice quivering. She stopped, cleared her throat and tried again.

 

“At the split tree where we found some of Belle’s things, Belle’s shells were concentrated in one direction. And the walkers Gold had killed were _behind_ Belle.”

 

“So he was protecting her?” Emma asked.

 

“It looks that way.” Snow shrugged. Phil snorted.

 

“Protecting his investment, more like,” he said, fingers drumming an uneven tattoo on the Honda’s hood.

 

“Or he was just saving his own skin. Gold is a coward.” Mei-Xing’s voice was hushed and sharp, like the whisper of a drawn sword. Moe glanced up to find Mei-Xing standing beside Phil, eyes glittering. To a fighter of Mei-Xing’s heritage, there was no higher sin than cowardice, Moe thought. Mei-Xing stabbed a finger at the line as if to pin a wayward, imaginary Belle in place long enough for them to find her.

 

“If that town is where he has taken Belle, then that is where we must go.”

                        

**ZZZ**

 

Belle woke with a start, blinded by strong sunlight. She was groping for her gun before she was even fully awake.

 

“Easy, love,” Rum’s voice above her was soothing. She held up a hand to shield her eyes, subsiding in the pocket of warmth next to Rum with a soft sigh. Her sleep had been deep, a loss of consciousness so complete that waking felt like rebirth. Belle stretched languorously, feeling sated and pleasantly sore. She nestled closer to Rum, too lazy to reach for his lips, she kissed his throat. Draping her leg over his, she found he was fully dressed beneath the duvet. Puzzled, she looked up at him. His dark eyes were fastened on her with a coiled intensity.

 

“What is it, Rum?” she asked, her sleepy languor dissipating with a rush of alarm.

 

“Should I . . . should I leave you to sleep?” Rum asked. Belle’s mind snagged on ‘leave you’ and reacted with blind instinct, clutching him close. She relaxed her grip by force of will. How could something have gone wrong when they had fallen asleep wrapped in such perfect pleasure and understanding?

 

“D—Do you want to leave?” she stuttered, emotion thickening her warbling voice. The arm curled around her shoulders twitched, clamping her against his side.  

 

“No,” he said.

 

“Then _don’t_ ,” she said, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder, breathing in the musky smell of him. Rum caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, his rough thumb smoothing over her bottom lip as his eyes moved over her face, as if to memorize every plane and curve.

 

“Belle,” he said, softly, tenderly, like he loved her. Those were dangerous thoughts . . . then Belle couldn’t think any more, because Rum was kissing her. Kissing her with that wonderful, soul-stealing skill in the press of his lips and the surge of his tongue, and oh God, a taste ripe with longing and desperation. Just like their first kiss, it felt like goodbye. And inside, her heart was screaming. Her face was wet with tears when they broke apart.

 

“Rum . . .” she began, the words lodged in her throat. _Don’t. Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t. Stay with me, please, please, please . . ._

 

“Belle, I need to tell you something,” he said, and in his sweet tea-colored eyes she saw fear, bottomless and profound. She swallowed her pleading and swiped her tears.

 

“What is it?” she whispered. _The brave thing,_ she reminded herself. He stole one last kiss at the corner of her mouth, shy and adoring.

“Get dressed. You might want to leave when I’m finished.”

 

Belle felt drunken and reeling as she stood and gathered her scattered clothes. Where were her panties? Didn’t matter. Her hands were shaking too hard; she could barely manage her jeans, bra and sweater. There was a yawning emptiness inside her, in her chest. Fuck, it _hurt_. The grip of her pistol anchored her; its solid, purposeful weight against her thigh reminded her that she wasn’t helpless. No matter how this man could dissemble her with a few words, she was _not_ weak. Belle faced her lover as if facing a firing squad. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stared at his folded hands draped between his knees. 

 

“What do you need to tell me, Gold?” He flinched a little at her use of his surname, but instead of vicious satisfaction, she only felt numb.

 

“You once asked me about my trade. My deals. I told you that I was a lawyer, pawnbroker, and landlord. And I was, for many years. My grandfather was a gunsmith, and I learned quite a bit from him. Custom gun-making was a hobby.”

 

“Ok,” Belle said shakily, still braced for a blow.

 

“But that’s not all. In addition, I was also dealt in other precious objects.”

 

“For example?” He met her gaze, and struck.

 

“Rarities. Weapons. People, on occasion.” Five words, even words that she on some level had expected to hear, were still devastating.  

 

“I told you I wasn’t the sort of monster to rape. I never denied the fact that I was one.” Belle closed her eyes, shutting out his dark, imploring gaze, his ragged, stitched-together bravery. With a long, calming breath, Belle looked at him, pinning him in place with her stare.

 

“Have you ever killed anyone?” He didn’t hesitate.

 

“Yes. Rivals to my business, both with my own hand and through a third party by my order.” Belle nodded, nausea roiling in her belly.

 

“What happened to Bailey?” A shuddering sigh left him, and he buried his face in his hands.

 

“I was married once, before . . . everything. I was just a pawnbroker then. Millie, she . . . didn’t love me. And I thought I loved her. For a long time, actually. We made Bae together, and that was the best thing I ever did. I loved that boy. But Millie was unhappy. So . . . so one day she left with some sailor. Left my boy without a mother. Then she comes waltzing back into our lives after I’d built an empire on blood and gunpowder, whining about alimony and visitation rights. I told her to fuck off. But with my . . . activities, even without a shred of proof, it didn’t take her long to build a case against me.

 

“She took him. She took Bae from me. Took him hundreds of miles away to live with her and that piece of scum. When the evacuations started and all that crazy shite about dead people rising was splashed all over the news, I tried to get to him. When I finally made it to Florida, all I found was Millie and Killian. She told me she’d sent Bae someplace safe, with a group of nuns to a shelter. The nuns were gone and so was Bae; Mille didn’t know where. I . . .” he broke off.

 

“Go on,” Belle urged. Looking hunted and intensely miserable, he did.

 

“I killed her. I shot her in the head. And then I killed her lover, with one in the heart. When he turned, I killed him again.” The words felt like a punch to the stomach. Even if she had been bracing for the truth of his past, she hadn’t expected . . . _this_. 

 

“Say something,” he asked, the dry, emotionless recital shattering in raw desperation.

 

“What do you want me to say?” she said. His lower lip quivered and he made a helpless gesture.

 

“I don’t know. Anything. Tell me you hate me. Tell me to get the fuck away from you. Tell me--”

 

“I love you,” Belle blurted out.

 

Relief spread through her, like the fine dew of sweat following a broken fever. She did. Because he was still the same man who had saved her life, who promised never to hurt her, who had kissed her like she was the center of his universe. Her words seemed to annihilate him. Rum dissolved into heaving sobs, head shaking wildly.

 

“That’s not possible. You can’t, Belle. I’m a monster.” Belle suddenly couldn’t bear the steps separating them and she sat beside him.

 

“You’re not a monster. A man who loves his son the way you do is no monster. Would a monster have saved my life at the split tree? Or earlier, when I went tearing off after my pack? You defended me with little more than your bare hands. And knowing about my bad experiences, you _asked_ before you touched me. You chased away my monsters, Rum. You’re my hero.” His thin, mobile features twisted into an expression of tearful disbelief, a misery so deep she wanted to gather him against her heart and take his pain away.

 

“Belle . . .” His hands fluttered over her like anxious birds, unsure of where to land. Belle flung her arms around him, sweet cleansing tears falling from her eyes.

 

“Oh Belle, I . . . I love you,” he whispered through his tears, peppering her face with kisses.  Belle uttered a soft cry. Of course he did. He loved her enough to tell her the truth, and give her the freedom of choice. The incendiary pleasure of his frantic kisses blew on the embers of their first encounter and Belle was suddenly aflame with want.

 

“Rum, please. Love me,” she breathed, kissing him.

 

“Yes. _Yes_. Anything you want, Belle. _Anything_ ,” he panted against her mouth, pushing her beneath him on the bed. Belle had never felt so happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, gotta love Rumbelle smut. Lot of gear shifts in this part. I hope I nailed it.


	4. Death, Taxes, and Inlaws

Part 4

 

 

Late afternoon found Belle and Rum gathering their supplies and leaving the house. For herself, Belle was sorry to leave. Wrapped in a cocoon of warmth with the sound of Rum’s heartbeat under her ear went a long way towards banishing the memory of a snowy parking lot and hard hands. She counted it as both a personal triumph and a testament to Rum’s talents as a lover to so completely remove her whirring brain from the proceedings.

The kitchen, however, had been bereft of anything other than a can of wet dog food and a wizened apple; her rucksack was likewise dangerously low on food. They’d finished off the last of her peaches draped naked on the bed, giggling and feeding each other morsels like servants feeding a lounging emperor. Wagging his eyebrows comically, Rum scooped up a handful of gravel they’d tracked in into the empty tin can. Responding with a wide, stupid grin, Belle followed him upstairs as he flung the noisy can out of the window. The two walkers left pawing at the front door lurched off after it.

Hand in hand, Belle and Rum crept maybe a hundred yards through a thin screen of trees to the neighbor’s house, dispatching the single walker at the door with Belle’s knife. They swept the house with practiced ease, finding it clear. Once the door was secured Belle began to rustle through the kitchen cabinets, but uttered a startled squeak when she felt Rum’s hand slip past the waistband of her jeans to cup her bare buttock.

“Watch the hands, Mr. Gold,” she said, unable to stifle the laughter running beneath the words. She mock-glared at him over her shoulder. His lazy smirk made her stomach flip.

“I can’t help it, love. It adds a certain spice knowing you’re not wearing any knickers.” He squeezed her arse, wearing an expression of male smugness.

“It’s not my fault I couldn’t find my panties. _Someone_ threw them off with some urgency.” Belle sniffed, turning up her nose at him. He chuckled.

“Aye, love. Guilty as charged,” he said, releasing her after a smacking kiss. They continued their search in companionable silence. Belle uttered a triumphant cry and brandished two cans of stewed tomatoes and a small can of pumpkin pie filling, obviously the remnants of a forgotten Thanksgiving unearthed from the bowels of a cabinet. Rum glanced over and grinned.

“Mmm, looks delicious.” After a beat, he added, “So do you.” Belle hid her blush behind her curtain of hair.

“Why thank you,” she giggled.

She remembered Gold stealing a kiss before Mei-Xing would have executed him, remembered how fervently he’d responded to her every touch, his casually-voiced endearments. He was a very affectionate man, her Rumford. How long had he yearned for a simple touch, or for someone he could lavish the bounty of his devotion on? He’d done reprehensible things in his past, and owned up to them, regretted them even. She could love a man who strove to be better.  

Rum emerged with only a single bottle of filtered water.

“At least the seal’s unbroken. Enough to share, I think,” he said, shrugging.

“It will do,” Belle said, capturing his hand for a quick squeeze. Lucky for Rum, Belle considered herself a very affectionate person.  

“Now I must step out for a moment, love,” Rum said.  Belle frowned.

“Why?” she asked. Rum scratched the back of his head almost bashfully.

“Call of nature,” he said. Belle stifled a giggle. On the road, there was an abundance of trees to duck behind for privacy. Things were a bit more delicate in close quarters.

“Be quick. Take my knife,” Belle said, offering it to him.

“Be back in a flash,” Rum said, accepting the knife and pecking a quick kiss on her cheek before ducking outside.

 

**ZZZ**

 

Moe’s heart was pounding. They’d been on the road only a few minutes going at a fucking _crawl_ when Emma pointed out the inert walker on the side of the road. David swerved the Honda over onto the shoulder. Mei-Xing clambered from the packed back seat to inspect the corpse.

“Shot,” she said, kneeling next to it, “can’t tell the caliber.” Thank God! Still alive. Still fighting.

“Let’s keep moving,” Moe said.

“They have to be close!” Phil said, drumming his hands happily on the dash.

“Which way, Moe?” David asked, as Mei-Xing slid back next Snow.

“That way, along the road!” Moe said, with an impatient gesture. David accelerated smoothly and all their heads swiveled, looking for anything and everything. 

“There’s a second option,” Emma said quietly, after a minute.

“Speak up, Blondie!” Moe said, nudging her shoulder. She pointed out of the cracked window. Moe followed the gesture, his heart leaping to his throat at the sight another dead walker, sprawled in the ditch.

“We could just follow the bodies,” she said, smirking. Phil whooped.

“Good eye, Em,” David praised, swerving the Honda sharply across the road. Yanking the car into park and killing the engine, David met Moe’s eye in the rearview mirror.

“Let’s gear up and get Belle back,” David said to a rousing shout of agreement. They spilled out of the Honda, Moe yanking up the hatchback and grabbing his shotgun from the pile of weapons. David took the M16, Snow her bow, Mei-Xing her sword, and the rest grabbed assorted small arms and their favored bladed weapons.

“Formation and Moe’s on point,” David said, with a deferential nod.

Moe tried summon enough spit to speak, but his throat was as dry as a bloody desert. He nodded and jerked his chin in the direction of the bodies. The group fell into a triangular formation behind Moe, Phil at his right and Mei-Xing at his left, with David and Emma in the center and Snow bringing up the rear covering their asses. Moe jogged up the incline beyond the ditch, finding another dead walker, then another. He badly wanted to shout her name. Belle had to be close . . . but walkers could be close too, or say Gold got antsy if he heard them near?  The bastard might hurt her.

So Moe channeled all of his flagging energy into another step, now following a gravel drive up to a house. Fuck, there was a _pile_ of dead walkers. The faint _thwppt_ of Snow’s bow. Moe glanced over his shoulder to find a walker pinned to a tree through its eye socket. They’d take walkers out quietly if they could, to save ammo and not alert more walkers to their presence. More killed walkers littered the porch. Moe’s stomach lurched at the now-familiar divot in several walkers’ skulls. Divots made by a cane. _They were in the house._ Moe pointed at the door, pointing first at Phil, then David. Both men moved to either side of the door, while the rest of the group took strategic positions on the porch.

“One, two, three,” David whispered, then on three, both men kicked at the door. The door burst open and Moe stepped in. Finding it clear, he gestured for the rest of them to fall in behind him. While Emma and Mei-Xing guarded the door, the rest of the group fanned out in the house, whispering, “The Catcher! The Catcher!” When there was no reply, Moe’s stomach began to sink.

“Moe!” Snow’s sharp voice at normal volume was like an electric shock. Moe abandoned his exploration of the living room, scaling the steps two at a time to reach Snow in one of the upstairs bedrooms, David and Phil hot on his heels. He scanned the room, feeling an instant’s intense relief when there were no bodies, no blood in sight. His relief evaporated at the look on Snow’s face: a bleak look full of horror and sympathy.

“What is it, Snow?” David asked. Snow shook her head, unable to speak. Dread gnawed at his gut and he lurched toward where she had been standing, looking in the corner. A scrap of blue fabric? Moe picked it up. Underwear. _Belle’s_ underwear. The implication struck him like a knife in his gut. All the blood drained from his head, his ears rang, his shotgun fell.

“Oh.” The air left his lungs in a pained groan. He staggered back until his back hit the wall. Blankly, he saw the ring of familiar, concerned faces, and behind them, the bed . . .

“Oh God,” he whispered, pressing his shaking hands to his face, the heels digging painfully into his eye sockets. Moe sank into a squat against the wall.

“Oh no . . . no, no, no . . .” he chanted, rocking a little on his heels.

“Moe? Moe, what the fuck is going on?” Phil’s voice reached him from a distance, ringing tinnily. Moe blinked at him.

Snow grabbed Phil’s forearm and he saw her lips move, no doubt sharing the horror. Moe watched, with abstract fascination, the variety of reactions. Snow was trembling and weeping, David clamped his hand over his mouth, anguish stamped on his handsome features. And Phil . . . the mild, gentle Phil went absolutely ballistic. He seized the frame of the bed and upended it, kicking the hollow iron pipes until they crumpled and bent. The blaze of Phil’s rage lit the fuse to Moe’s own, and the despair and horror and pain were suddenly, thankfully transformed to rage. Hot, brilliant and energizing. Moe stood and they all swiveled toward him. 

“When we find them, Gold is _mine_ ,” he said, already finding his weapon and moving out of that horridly cheerful room of roses and pink, where his little girl had suffered at the hands of a monster.

“What did you find?” Mei-Xing asked as they descended the stairs. Instead of explaining, Phil shoved Belle’s underthings into Mei-Xing’s hand. Her brow pursed in confusion for a moment. Then, it dawned on her. A fine tremor raced through her, and when Mei-Xing looked up, Moe saw murder written on her face.

“He will die for this,” she said.

“What? What is it?” Emma said, peeking over Mei-Xing’s shoulder. The teenager’s thin mouth twisted into a frown.

“Gold, he . . . he . . .” Phil began, but couldn’t manage the words. There was something screaming inside Moe, he knew he had to keep moving, keep fighting, or that thing inside him would never stop screaming. He shouldered past them, unable to bear the look on little Emma’s face when she heard--

“They can’t be far. Come on,” he said.

 

The group moved in formation from the house, first making their way back to the Honda.

“We’ll head east on foot, see if we can pick up their trail. If Belle was hur--” Moe voice wobbled and broke. He slammed his fist against the Honda’s hood, mastering himself.

“They might be moving slower. We can catch up,” he finished. No one spoke. They were beyond words now. Something dark and hot growled inside Moe, a hunger almost. Like a walker, it was an appetite that did not nourish and sustain, but was only a soulless greed.  Instead of flesh, it was a hunger for revenge.

The group moved on silent feet east. Moe shoved aside a screen of thin branches and saw another house.

“Mei-Xing, Phil, Emma, go around back, see what you can find,” Moe said. The three broke off, with David and Snow taking positions behind Moe. This door, he kicked in himself, once, twice, three times with the impact jarring up through his leg. A fierce satisfaction filled him at the twisted furniture used to blockade the entryway. A cold barrel pressed against his shoulder.

“Drop it,” a steely female voice commanded him, the syllables rounded by a soft Australian accent. Moe’s rage crumbled into ashes, his shotgun falling from nerveless fingers.

“Belle?” he said. And there she was, his sweet girl, her face first blank with shock, then transcendent with love and joy.

“Dad!” she breathed, flinging her arms around him, her pistol heavy against his shoulder. Moe crushed her to his chest, breathing in the soft sweet smell of her hair. He would hold her and protect her and bring her home, where he could keep her safe forever.

“Oh Belle, oh my darling Belle!” Moe said, unwilling to relinquish his grip on her.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I scared you. I had to, to keep us all safe. I missed you,” she said, her free hand patting and rubbing Moe’s back. His heart broke. His sweet girl, always thinking of others, putting their needs above her own. A small, rational part of him gobbled up details about her appearance. She looked whole and sane and why wouldn’t she be? His Belle was so strong and brave, no matter what that cock-sucking bastard did to her . . .

“It’s all right, Belle. Everything will be all right, I promise,” he crooned, swaying side to side with her in his arms, like he had when she was small. 

“Belle?” Snow’s soft voice reminded Moe that he was not alone. He reluctantly let go of her. Belle’s teary face broke into a dazzling smile.

“Snow, David! I’m so happy to see you both!” she said, accepting quick embraces from the two.

“We’re glad you’re ok,” David said, an anxious, tender smile on his face. Poor Snow was beyond words, her face twisted into a tearful grimace and she hugged Belle tight. Yes, Moe thought. Once they took care of Gold, she would be ok again. Remembering his purpose and anger helped. Moe picked up his shotgun.

“Snow, what’s wrong?” Belle asked, rubbing the older woman’s back soothingly.

“We’ll be just fine, Belle. We’ll keep you safe now,” David said.

“Where is he?” Moe said, more to the point. Belle staggered back, holstering her gun and swiping her hair from her face. She held up her hands with a confused grin.

“Wait, wait, hang on a sec. How did you find us? And what are you talking about, keep me safe? Rum woul--”

“ _Rum_?” Moe repeated, cold dread heavy in his belly. Belle frowned.

“Gold,” she corrected, wearing her please-keep-up-Dad look.

“We know what he did, sweetheart. We’ll take you home and help you recover as best we can,” Snow said, swiping her tears with a brave sniffle.

“What he did to me? What do think he did?” Belle asked. Why was she denying it? Did she feel ashamed? His poor girl! In reply, Moe offered Belle her underthings. The same detached part of his mind watched as every ounce of color drained from her face as her fist closed over her innocent underwear, then returned in violent force, making her resemble a wavy-haired tomato.

“You—you think he . . . raped me?” The questioning tone turned Moe’s world on its axis. Was it a matter of _thinking_? The evidence seemed pretty definitive to him, cobbled together with other clues they’d found. Had she fought him off somehow?

“He _didn’t_. I . . . I chose to be with him,” Belle said, blue eyes blazing clear and defiant and sane. Moe’s gut turned. Had she been brainwashed? Someone as strong as his Belle? During their infrequent, painfully awkward conversations on sex—in both the world before and again in this new, harsher one—Belle had made it abundantly clear she would only have sex with someone she loved, especially after that whole mess with Greg Aston her freshman year of college.

“Are you saying you fell in love with him?” The words tumbled from his lips, a potent mix of incredulity and horror. A soft, little smile touched her lips, making her look lit from within. God, she looked _happy_. 

“Yes. Yes I did, Dad,” she said, gripping his forearm, willing him to understand. Moe reeled, unable to reconcile what he had discovered with what Belle was telling him. She’d known Gold a handful of days and was suddenly declaring her love for him? Was Gold really so skilled a manipulator? He shared a glance with Snow and David and found them tense and wary.

“Belle--” Snow began. Belle held up a hand, her glittering eyes and the pugnacious thrust of her chin screaming: _Don’t_.

“Where are the others? Did you see Rum outside?”

“Mei-Xing, Phil and Emma went to check around the back side of the house,” David said. Belle cursed.

“And they all think the same thing?” she demanded, already pushing past David out the front door. Moe’s already uneasy gut lurched at the mental image of Mei-Xing and Gold meeting, especially under their supposed ill-conclusion.

“Yes,” Snow said, already trotting at Belle’s heels.

“Fuck,” Moe said eloquently, hurrying after Belle.

 

They heard the voices raised in heated argument before they saw them. Moe rounded the corner of the house to a small copse of trees and found an odd, four-cornered Mexican standoff. Gold stood with his back to a tree, calmly aiming his handgun squarely between Mei-Xing’s eyes. The Chinese girl stood with her sword poised aloft, deadly still, eyes flashing black rage. Phil had his gun aimed at Gold and Emma was wringing her hands at the edge of it all.

“I should just blow your fucking head off, you fucking piece of scum!” Phil said, jabbing his pistol in Gold’s direction for emphasis. Gold, the tiny sneering bastard, just grinned, revealing the glint of a gold tooth.

“You could try, dearie. But do you really want to risk me killing your friend here?” he drawled, nodding toward Mei-Xing.

“Bastard!” Phil said.

“For God’s sake!” Belle said, marching past Phil to stand squarely in front of Gold.

“Put down the weapons! All of you!” Belle ordered, her hand on her pistol grip. Phil obeyed.

“Belle?” he asked, frowning. Mei-Xing brandished her sword, not moving, not blinking.

“Careful, love,” Gold said, wrapping an arm around Belle’s middle, not taking his eye off Mei-Xing or lowering his gun, “This lot might shoot you by accident trying to get to me.”

“Fuck off and die, Gold,” Phil said, shoving his pistol to its holster with considerable force.

Belle was an island of glacial calm in the center of it all, staring down their group. Moe watched as Belle discreetly squeezed Gold’s wrist, a gesture she’d given Moe half a thousand times. Some of the tension fell from Gold’s posture. With an ironic lift of his brow, he tilted his gun to one side, showing his finger was off the trigger.

“Only cowards hide behind their women, Gold.” Moe saw something flash in Gold’s expression, a flinch almost at Mei-Xing’s barb.

“Get that fucking sword away from Belle, dearie. Or I will _shoot_ you. How’s that for cowardice?” 

“Enough!” Belle’s voice cut through the thickening tension.

“This is childish. Ru—Gold didn’t hurt me, ok? He . . . we . . . I wanted to.”

Moe watched with an almost vicious satisfaction as shock struck them just as dumb as it had him. Phil gawped, jaw hanging open. Emma frowned, then clapped a hand over her mouth to smother a giggle. Mei-Xing’s coiled stance wobbled, the tip of her sword burying in the dirt as she regained her balance. Gold—the smug bastard— _preened_ , straightening to his full five foot eight.

“Wha— _really_ Belle?” Phil asked, nose wrinkling as he glanced Gold up and down. There wasn’t much in his favor, Moe thought uncharitably. A short, scrawny thing, with eyes that were too big, a hooked nose, a thin mouth, and Christ, how old _was_ he? Forty at least, his youth long gone by the time Belle was _born_. She deserved someone better. Her face aflame, Belle leveled Phil with her glare.

“Yes, Phil. Shut it,” she said.

Mei-Xing exhaled a long breath, sheathed her sword with brisk efficiency, and stalked off around the house.

“Mei-Xing!” Belle’s call was left unanswered. With a final wary glance at Phil, Gold returned his gun to his holster at his right hip and limped beside Belle. God, he was a bloody cripple too! His girl had fallen for a crippled bastard twice her age . . .

Said bastard was tilting Belle’s face toward his with a gentle finger.

“Did I miss something, love? Not that I mind you ah, staking your claim--” he said, a rolling, Scottish burr rounding the words. Belle rolled her eyes.

“They found my panties and came to the misguided conclusion that you raped me.” It was brutal said in so few words; it felt like a kick in the gut to Moe. Gold’s eyebrows flew up, his grin revealing white, crooked teeth.

“Well, they’re all morons. You’re a fucking warrior, a queen. Do they think I could have laid a finger on you if you didn’t want me to?” While the tone was soft, the words were pitched loud enough for all of them to overhear. Moe’s hand whitened around the stock of his shotgun. Mouthy little bastard. In response, Belle snorted, snatching a quick kiss on his lips. Moe felt his stomach turn at the sight.

“Play nice,” she said. David cleared his throat.

“Uh, Belle? Can we move this inside? The house is good enough to bunk down in for the night.” Moe glanced at the sky, a rust-streaked purple above skeletal black trees.

“Phil, come with me and we’ll get Mei-Xing and the Honda. The rest of you should head inside and start turning in.” David’s brisk, commanding voice broke the standoff. Emma seized the opportunity to grab Belle in a fierce hug, murmuring something Moe couldn’t make out.

“Emma, come on. Let’s head inside,” Snow said. Emma obeyed, trotting to her mother’s side.

“See you inside, Belle, Belle’s boytoy,” she said with a cheeky grin. Gold nodded, dipping into an odd, extravagant bow.

“‘Belle’s boytoy,’ I like that. Much better than cowardly, illegitimate scum,” he said. Moe, Belle and Gold lingered a moment.

“Rum, this is my dad, Moe French. Dad, this--” Gold limped forward, extending his hand.

“Rumford Gold, Mr. French. A pleasure to meet you.” Moe squinted at the proffered hand. The gimp shifted gears quick, didn’t he?

“Dad,” Belle goaded sharply. Moe grasped Gold’s hand, squeezing a tad harder than he usually would.

“Gold. I would say it’s a pleasure, but my daughter disappeared when you showed up. Disappeared with hordes of walking corpses around. For _you_.” Gold’s eyes flashed again, a glitter that read: _Danger_.

“Yes, you really should keep a better leash on her,” he said, sarcasm laid on thick enough to choke on. His thin smile made Moe want to punch it off him.

“Oh God. _Spare_ me the male posturing bullshit,” Belle said, stalking off toward the house. Gold offered Moe a shrug and followed.                

        

**ZZZ**

 

When Belle pictured her reunion with her group, she had pictured tearful hugs and apologies, a stern talking to from David or Dad, maybe. What she did not expect was to have to stand in front of her lover to keep her family from killing him.

“When we saw the tracks at the walker pit, we worried that he had hurt you, or threatened you,” Snow explained while they got to work reinforcing the house.

“It was more like the other way around, dearie,” Rum said, using his cane to lever the kitchen table in front of the back door.

“We had no way of knowing that,” Dad said, gruffly. Her dad was hovering behind Belle, glowering in Rum’s direction. Belle eyed him narrowly over her shoulder.

“Then we found the uh, your . . .” Dad said. Embarrassment and exasperation and the dregs of gnawing terror made Belle’s fragile hold on her temper snap.

“Yes, I understand. And you jumped to a conclusion. The wrong one,” she said, rounding on him, “You could have _killed_ him. I’m sure Phil or Mei-Xing would have executed him on sight if you hadn’t claimed the kill to avenge your poor helpless daughter’s soiled honor. Isn’t that right, Dad?” She drilled her finger into his chest. While his brow lowered in defensive anger, the set of his mouth was almost wounded.

“What else was I supposed to do, darling? After what happened last year—” Belle cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“After what happened to _me_ , Dad,” she said, thumping a hand on her chest for emphasis, “It was _my_ experience, my horror. And you made it about you, about your revenge.” The terror inside her wasn’t the memory of a snowy parking lot, but of a chilly autumn with a hole in Rum’s head, those sweet dark eyes closed forever. Tears blurred the image of her dad’s face, and she swayed a little.

“If you had killed Rum . . . I don’t think I could have forgiven you for that,” she whispered.

“Belle, I’m sorry,” Dad said, reaching for her. She threw her arms around him.

“I love you, Dad,” she said into the musty folds of his coat.

“I love you too, Belle. I’m so glad you’re safe.” There was a warble in his voice and Belle’s heart melted. He had just been scared and exhausted and desperate. They had had precious little to go on. A glance over her shoulder saw Snow, Emma and Rum watching with expressions ranging from sympathetic in Snow’s case, to Emma’s contemplation and . . . Rum looked at her with wide, worshipful eyes, like an abused dog that had finally found a gentle hand. Why? Because she said it would have broken her to see him harmed? Belle was almost sorry to have seen it—it was almost too private a notion to glimpse. Belle peeled back, cupping her dad’s stubbled cheek.  

“I hate to sound like a broken record Dad, but no one--”

“Decides your fate but you. I remember. I’ll try not to forget it,” Dad said, kissing her forehead.

The low grumble of car tires on gravel cut off any more emotional pronouncements. David and Phil soon stepped in, laden with supplies with Mei-Xing in tow. Phil dropped his burden carelessly on the hardwood floor and scooped Belle up in a hug, his lean face transformed by a blinding smile.

“What kind of greeting was that, Bells? I tromp through mud and rain and walkers, finally find you and then you’re chewing my ass out?” Belle swatted Phil’s shoulder when he released her.

“There were extenuating circumstances, Phil. You _were_ trying to kill my boyfriend at the time,” Belle said.

“Yeah,” Phil said, glancing over her shoulder at Rum, “Your boyfriend. You really can pick ‘em, huh?”

“Shut up,” was Belle’s dry rejoinder. She bent and gathered the battery-powered lantern and an armful of bedding supplies. Dad and David went to work installing one of Phil’s more devious creations on the front door, a portable barricade of welded steel that braced in any doorframe with the twist of central crank. The group worked in smooth silence: Snow and Emma sorting and dividing supplies, Phil setting up sleep spaces, Dad and David seeing to the last of the fortifications. To Belle’s dismay, Mei-Xing would not respond beyond a simple: ‘I’m glad you’re alive.’ She instead divided her time between pacing the perimeter of the room and glaring at Rum.

For Belle, everything was taking on a surreal, dream-like quality, with muted sounds and edges softened and blurred. Less than six hours of sleep in the past two days would do that to a person. Likewise, Rum, Dad, and Snow seemed to stumble through the motions of securing the house and settling in.

“Where’s the Honda?” Belle asked Phil as he claimed a sleeping spot in the right corner of the room with his sleeping bag.

“We hid her beyond the shed out back. Just a quick dash to get to her, and she can’t be spotted from the road,” he replied with a shrug, “That is, if you can keep up.” The last was said with glance of intense disdain at Rum’s cane before he stalked off. Indignation surged through her on his behalf and she opened her mouth to scold Phil. Rum’s hand closed around her upper arm, his mouth hot and sweet against her ear.

“Let it go, love,” he murmured.

“It’s stupid— _they’re_ stupid, for treating you this way. Isn’t my word good enough?” Belle hissed back, wanting to throw herself over him and protect him from their harsh glances and barbed words. Protect him from her own family.

“You’re tired, we’re all tired. Up until an hour ago, they were dealing with the possibility that you had been brutalized. Let them get their frustration out. I can take it.” He dropped a grazing, almost timid peck on her temple.

“You shouldn’t have to,” she said, leaning into him. He shifted his grip on his cane, looping an arm around her middle.

“I shouldn’t have _you_ either. Life’s full of these little quirks,” he said dryly. Belle snorted.

“Idiot,” she said, squeezing his wrist before moving away from him.      

“If things get hairy, our path is straight out the back door, everyone. Remember that,” David said.  

Soon, they were seated in a ring in what had been the living room while Snow doled out cans of food, bottled water and sporks. Belle took Rum’s hand, weaving their fingers together. In the weak white light of the lantern, with his eyes glittering beneath the fringe of his hair, her Rum looked alien and half-tamed. His smile was quick and sweet, though, and he brought her captive hand up for a kiss. Staking a claim, indeed.

“Thank you,” Rum said when Snow reached him. Snow gave him a weary smile.

“You’re welcome,” she said, before taking her seat between David and Emma. Rum considered the battered can he held, its paper label long since scraped away.

“How did you get it warm?” he asked.

“The best we could manage without a fire was to set the cans on the Honda’s hood,” Emma said, already prying her can open, “Mom can make better back at the cabin.”

“I’m not one to quibble. Any food is good food,” Rum said with an earnest nod.

“The wonders of canned pasta,” Belle said with a sideways grin. Rum winked at her, fishing limp ravioli from the can with his spork.

“Back home, my mother always said hunger is the best seasoning,” he said, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. The maxim was true, Belle thought. Hunger gnawing a hole in one’s belly made lukewarm Chef Boyardee a delicacy.

“And where are you from, Mr. Gold?” David asked, a smear of red sauce decorating his upper lip.

“Glasgow, Scotland. I moved to the States many years ago, first Boston, then Storybrooke.”

“Immigrants, like Moe and Belle,” Snow remarked and Belle was passionately grateful for their polite attempts at conversation. Anything but Mei-Xing and Dad’s glowering or Phil’s snide asides.

“Yes, indeed.” 

“And how old are you?” Dad’s question didn’t even bother with the pretense of manners. Belle’s spork rattled against the rim of her can.

“Dad,” Belle said, a warning in her tone.

“It’s ok,” Rum said, turning the full battery of his liquid dark eyes on Belle’s father.

“I was born on April 14, 1963.”

Belle took the knowledge in stride. So he was much older than her—a year older than her dad, actually—big deal. She didn’t love him any less, or find him less attractive. Belle scooted closer to him, nudging his knee with her own. His smile was a weak, anemic thing. Phil, firmly ensconced on Belle’s left side, grimaced, but under Belle’s sharp glare, did not comment. There was a brief, painful silence. Then, Emma bravely piped up: “So what did you do for a living? Belle said you make deals?” Rum cleared his throat, and latched onto the topic gratefully.

“Yes, I owned a pawn shop for many years. I dabbled in property, and contracts.” _And organized crime_ , Belle added silently. She could easily imagine him in a sleek three piece suit, issuing orders in his cool, drawling voice as he sipped bourbon from a cut crystal tumbler. The panting, female part of her brain picked up the image and salivated over it. As the Nolans continued their ‘getting to know Gold’ cross-examination, Phil leaned close to Belle.   

“So he didn’t get . . . rapey?” he asked _sotto voce_ , peeling of his glasses to clean the lenses with the hem of his shirt. Belle snorted.

“No. He didn’t. I kind of . . . pounced on him. He had just saved my life.”

“And _she_ had just fought through a dozen walkers to save mine. We were keyed up.” Rum’s voice poured over her like hot honey, and Belle smiled a little at the memory. Phil squeezed his eyes closed, shaking his head violently.

“Nope, uh uh, I don’t need that mental image.”

“You asked,” Rum said, devoid of mercy. There was something smug in his voice, almost gloating. Belle cut a glance at Rum. Did he feel _threatened_ by Phil? She made a mental note to reassure him if they ever got a moment alone.

“So where do we go from here? Where were you and Gold headed, Belle?” David asked. Belle met Gold’s eye and together they shrugged.

“We hadn’t thought that far. I knew I couldn’t leave you guys.”

“And I couldn’t have Belle in Storybrooke,” Gold said, squeezing her captive hand as if to reassure himself she was still there.

“Why?” Emma asked.

“I am Storybrooke’s . . . mayor, I guess you could say. And my sheriff is a bit, shall we say, overzealous in matters of security.”

“I get overzealous in a world like this one,” Dad said, in gruff agreement. Rum nodded.

“She does have a son to protect,” Rum said with a shrug. A needle jabbed Belle, a tiny spear of jealousy that shrieked at the mention of a ‘she.’   

“So your lady sheriff would close the gates in Belle’s face?” Phil said skeptically. Rum narrowed his eyes in Phil’s direction.

“If she saw Belle as a threat, Regina might try to kill Belle.” As the words penetrated, Rum continued, “Like I said, overzealous. Between her and her pet Graham, I spend more time putting out fires than actually running the town.”

“And its secure? The whole town?” Mei-Xing asked, scowling over her can of pasta.

“Yes. Gates, walls, armed patrols. We have a library, a hospital--”

“A _hospital_?” Snow repeated, lurching upright from where she had been dozing against David’s shoulder.

“Well, it’s not much now. When everything collapsed and after the National Guard swept through, they set a torch to the hospital. We salvaged some of it. The ER is still standing; most of the stockpiled supplies were untouched in the basement.” Rum toasted Snow with his now-empty tin, “Mountains of canned pasta.”

During Rum’s recitation, Belle watched the realization dawn on each of them. Gold could be a very powerful ally. The sheer amount of resources at his disposal was more than they’d seen since the world ended. Food, medicine, _safety_. And Rum was there. That was enough for Belle to want to risk crazy sheriffs and their pets. A stray thought wondered if it was a literal or metaphorical pet. Another, larger part of her whispered words of caution.

“Do you have any allies in Storybrooke, enough to keep Belle safe if this Regina did decide she was a threat?” Dad asked. Rum tilted his head back, considering the ceiling for a moment.

“A few.”

“Why did you leave Storybrooke? Couldn’t this Regina take over in your absence?” Mei-Xing asked. While she was glad her friend was engaged, even curious, there was an edge beneath the words. Belle bit her tongue over scolding words. Now was not the time.

Rum shifted, bracing his weight on his outstretched arms. Belle read pain in his expression. She moved, drawing his bad leg into her lap, feeling the shudder of a cramp in his calf. She patiently kneaded the corded muscle, his gasp signaling relief. Belle was aware of her family’s intense regard. Hell, they’d been staring at every touch, whisper or movement between them. It was starting to get _really_ annoying. 

“She could,” Rum gasped, sweat beading on his brow, “but not if she wants to see her son again. I have him hidden in Storybrooke.”

“A hostage?” Snow asked uncomfortably.

“A guest,” Rum corrected, “A token for his mother’s obedience.”

“You would never hurt a child,” Belle said with utter confidence.

“True,” Rum said, eyes soft on her, “but Regina doesn’t know that. She’ll fume and rage, but she will obey.” The cramp subsided under her hands. Belle patted his knee before crawling back to her space between Rum and Phil.

“What if we made a deal with you, Gold?” David asked, taut and serious across the room. Belle watched as her tender lover was swallowed by the shark with his thin smile and glittering eyes. 

“When two people want what the other has, a deal can always be struck. What is it that you want?” Belle knew even before Dad said it.

“What would you say if we asked to join you in Storybrooke? All of us. Belle would have protection, 24/7,” Dad said.

“So would you,” Rum pointed out with a sly smirk. The power had shifted in his favor and the bastard was enjoying it. Like an experienced angler, he’d reeled them in with words like ‘hospital’ and ‘walls’.

“Have you thought about this, David?” Belle asked, searching his face. While she wanted to be with Rum, Storybrooke sounded . . . dangerous. There was danger enough in the world without potentially psychotic sheriffs gunning for her.

“We’re a family. We stick together. If Gold is going to Storybrooke, and you’re going with Gold, then Storybrooke is where we go,” David said.

“We’ll have to discuss it, of course,” Phil hedged, squinting at Gold from behind his glasses.

“Of course, take all the time you need,” Rum said with a languid gesture, grinning like a Cheshire cat. A conversation had over Belle’s head, although it was her future involved. It really pissed Belle off.

“I need to talk to you,” Belle said, grabbing a handful of his leather jacket.

“Of course.” Rum staggered to his feet, catching his cane beneath him. She yanked him around the corner into kitchen. Wan moonlight seeped through the cracks in the boarded windows, painting him in a white tiger’s colors.

“What is it, love?” Rum asked, all innocence.

“You’re taunting them. Stop it.” Her tone sounded sharp and waspish even to her ears. Refusing to wince or soften the words, she just stood with her arms folded, waiting for his reply. Rum tilted his chin, and Belle recognized that speculative sneer from the night they met.

“Taunting them? They asked _me_ for a deal, love.”

“ _You_ said Storybrooke wasn’t safe.”

“That was before your family showed up and offered to come with us. I thought . . . I thought this would be what you wanted. Your family and . . . me.”

Pierced by the soft, uncertain warble underneath the words, Belle lunged in for a kiss. The kiss morphed into something greedy, tongues tangling and hands wandering, storing up sensation to tide them through the tedium of being near others—especially nosy others. Rum softened the kiss, pulling away after a series of languid pecks. Belle sighed, nestling against his chest. She smiled softly, when he kissed her like that, she forgot how he had irritated her. And the sound of his heartbeat did wonders for her mood.

“Yes, Rum. I want that. I want my family and I want you. But is Storybrooke the best place for us? Couldn’t you come back with us to the cabin? We could look for Bae and--”

“I didn’t want you in Storybrooke because many of my acquaintances from my former dealings are there. That was before I told you about everything.”

“What about Regina?”

“She is a vicious wee thing, but I can handle her. Especially if your family was there to help protect you.”

“Why would she hate _me_ so much? Wouldn’t our group as a whole be more of a threat to her?” Rum cupped her chin in his palm, his thumb brushing her lower lip. Oh, she loved that soft, sweet look; it made her feel treasured.

“It’s not that she’d hate you. She’d try and use you against me. A blind man could see I’m mad for you.” Belle could feel a smile bloom as surely as her blush. Belle grasped at the soft, dreamy feeling and summoned a sterner expression.

“As you use her son against her?” she asked. Rum nodded in grave reply.

“I’d never hurt the boy, Belle. But she has to _believe_ I would.”

“Is she really such a threat to you?”

“Yes. Regina is . . . charismatic. Given time, the people of Storybrooke might forget that they should be more terrified of me.” Belle frowned, chewing on that statement. Rum’s free hand stroked her upper arm. It was a gentle, soothing touch.

“Even with Regina, Storybrooke is far safer than your cabin. And room enough for comfort and privacy,” he said and Belle heard the lawyer in him asserting itself.

“Very attractive qualities,” Belle murmured, grinning at him.

“And your people are . . . useful. The Chinese lass is a force unto herself, and even the four-eyed bastard has his uses.” There was some heat in the last few words and Belle arched a brow.

“Are you jealous of Phil?” Rum’s face creased into a thunderous scowl.

“Of _course_ I’m jealous of him. He’s young and handsome and I’m . . . _not_. I hate him.” He dropped his cane, yanking her close. His kiss was more an assault, overwhelming her with the sensual stroke of his tongue and the pliant pleading of his lips. Belle clung to him, thoroughly ready to be ravished and conquered.

“I’m jealous of every man you’ve ever loved, I’m jealous of every moment you’ve spent away from me. I want you with every breath in me.” He kissed a path of scorching kisses along her jawline, breaking off to nuzzle her hair and nibble on her neck. Her hands sank into the fine strands of his hair, cupping his skull.

“I don’t want Phil, I want _you_. I chose you. You belong to _me,_ ” she promised.

“Belle,” he panted in her ear, “Come with me. You and your family, come with me to Storybrooke. I want you safe. I want you beside me. In my bed every night.” Belle uttered a smothered sound, breathing in the musky scent of him and sneaking her hand beneath his shirt to touch his chest, his belly. The inward chant was of greed and exaltation: _mine, mine, mine_.

“I want that too, Rum. I will go with you.”

“We stay together,” he purred, nuzzling her throat.

“Yes, we stay together,” Belle whispered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It might be leftover finale feels, but I couldn't break up Belle and Rum at the end of that chappie. Anyways, on to Storybrooke!


	5. Welcome to Storybrooke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang arrives at Storybrooke

Part 5:

Welcome to Storybrooke

 

The low murmur of conversation ceased as Belle and Rum rounded the corner. Belle felt a subtle itch between her shoulder blades, a vestige of enduring middle school gossip. Beside her, Rum flicked his hair from his eyes with a gesture, hands folded over his cane.

“Has your group come to a consensus, Mr. Nolan?” he asked coolly. Belle eyed him, seeing the glitter of the shark in his smile. He wore menace as easily as his leather jacket. It was hard to reconcile this face with the man clutching at her, breathing prayers of devotion in between heart-stealing kisses. Like a method actor separating his different roles, Rum had a talent for regimenting pieces of his personality.

“We have, Mr. Gold,” David’s handsome bearded face was stern, even when he was sitting cross-legged on a Disney princess sleeping bag.

“And?” Rum asked. David cast a glance around the ring of solemn faces. Belle’s heart rested in a hot, throbbing knot in her throat. If they said no, she hadn’t thought of what she would do.   

“We would like to join you in Storybrooke,” he said, glancing at Snow, who wove their fingers together in a gesture of both claim and support. Belle glanced at Rum’s hands braided atop his cane. She wished she’d claimed his hand. Rum’s smile was thin and sharp.

“I believe you have made the right choice,” he said, with a slight approximation of a bow.

“Is that still what you want, Belle?” Dad asked, peeling off his ball cap to comb his unkempt hair. Belle felt Rum’s gaze on her as she met her father’s eye.

“Yes. It’s what I want,” she said, with confidence.

“There are conditions,” Mei-Xing said from where she stood behind David, hands folded over the hilt of her sword in a mirror to Rum and his cane. Rum gestured theatrically.

“What deal could be made without a few provisos?”

“We are not to be separated,” Dad said.

“And we should be free to leave whenever we want,” Emma added.

“Our supplies are our own,” Phil, said. Rum shifted his weight subtly onto his good leg as he deliberated.

“Yes, well. I can accommodate some of your requests,” he offered.

“They’re non-negotiable,” Dad growled. Rum pulled an exaggeratedly aggrieved expression.

“In any bargain, there is an element of compromise.”

“Hear him out,” Belle said, drawing Rum down to sit beside her. She wouldn’t countenance Rum’s subtle power play in remaining standing while the others sat. Mei-Xing followed suit, laying her sword across her folded legs. She eyed Rum like a panther debating whether or not an unfamiliar animal was worth the effort of trying to kill.

Once settled, Rum raised his hand and began to tick off points with his fingers.

“I cannot promise communal accommodations for the seven of you, but I can say you will not be restricted in your movements—at least before curfew. You are free to leave Storybrooke when you wish, with the prior stipulation of curfew and you may not take any of our weapons with you. Your supplies and weapons are your own, of course, though since working vehicles are thin on the ground, I would request the free use of your car. As to each of your singular talents--” Rum paused his recital to give Phil a narrow glare.

“—I would incorporate each of you into the existing chain of command. There must be some sort of reciprocity, you see.”

“We would earn our keep,” Snow assured him, blue eyes round and hopeful. For her part, Belle thought that Rum’s terms were more than fair. Food, safety, medical care, privacy . . . God, they each could sleep without setting a watch for the first time in years!

“I have no doubt of that, dearie,” Rum said, and Belle could hear the faint ring of threat beneath his tone. She was again assaulted with the potent vision of him as a crime lord, silken-voiced and menacing, deaf to the softer pleas of mercy. This time, she felt vaguely nauseated.

“What about your . . . activities? We won’t--” David began. Rum made an exasperated noise.

“Oh come off your white horse, Prince Charming. Surely you aren’t still clinging to the mores of good and evil! With rotters and worse out there, you would do _anything_ to protect your family, aye? There are a hundred people in Storybrooke, and more than half of them children, elders, or disabled. Yet _all_ are useful, _all_ contribute to our survival. We kill rotters and bury our dead. Everything else is a matter of opinion.”

“Rum, David is well within his right to ask questions,” Belle said with a note of both consolation and warning. She knew he felt cornered and threatened and therefore afraid, but there was no need to lash out at her loved ones for being cautious. Rum reached for her hand and kissed the back of it, contrite.

“You’re right, love. My apologies, Mr. Nolan.” David nodded, glancing between Belle and Rum with a faint smile.

“It’s fine, Mr. Gold. I’m sorry for assuming the worst. We’ve been on the road for quite a while and we’re suspicious of other people.” Rum smiled down at the floorboards, then glanced up at the ring of faces around the weak lamp.

“No forgiveness is necessary. If you were less cautious, I’d doubt your sanity. Let’s sleep on our agreement, hmm? Think over my stipulations.” There was a murmur of assent from the group.

“Let’s get some shut eye. Mei-Xing, you’ve got the first watch,” David said.

The tension loosened as they fell into a rhythm of finding and settling into a sleeping space. Poor Snow, she was asleep before David had finished tucking the blanket over the two of them. Dad looked almost grey with exhaustion as he bunked down in the corner. Phil nudged Emma off his pallet with a wry word, and Mei-Xing settled gracefully near the dimmed lamp. At once, Belle was felt enveloped by a sense of warm camaraderie and familiarity, and crippling isolation. They would welcome her, but shun Rum. Now, that was intolerable. In days, this man had knitted himself into her soul. 

“There’s a cozy spot over here, Belle,” Dad said as he loosened the laces of his boots. On the road, there was a standing rule to never take off your shoes. If walkers cropped up and it was time to run, groping for your boots wasted precious seconds. Snow had made up a place for Rum too—a thin foam mat with a ratty afghan over it—but it was far from the others, and closest to the door. It was an afterthought, or at best a consideration for his bad leg. Either way, Belle saw it as farthest from protection and closest to danger. With the toe of her boot, she bumped the mat closer to the center of the circle.  

“No thanks Dad. This spot looks good enough for Rum and me,” Belle said with supreme casualness. The walls of the room began to ripple and soften as fatigue swamped her. Dad frowned, looking ready to argue. Belle blew him a kiss and murmured a sweet ‘goodnight.’

“’Night,” he grumbled, burrowing down into his sleeping bag. Rum shucked off his leather jacket and wadded it into a hard, musky pillow, patting the mat beside him with a comical waggle of his eyebrows. Belle sniggered, lacking the energy to even take off her windbreaker before collapsing next to Rum on the mat. She was sure he only had a thin sliver of the mat under him, but he made no complaint. He simply curled around her, nuzzling the back of her neck beneath the protection of her hair. She found his hand and braided their fingers.

“Lay your head and sleep, love. I’ll watch over you.” Belle smiled at his words, already floating away on soft clouds.

“Love you,” she whispered. His soft kiss on her neck was her reply.

 --

Rum’s low Scottish burr drew her from misty layers of sleep. The tether of his hand in hers reassured her, but the grip and sound of his voice was wrong. He was sitting up, with her hand folded in his. Who was he talking to?

“—I’ve no hard feelings. You’d be happy to know the ribs are healing up nicely as well.” There was a brief pause and Belle, still half-mired in dreams, found herself imagining shapes and colors to match their words and tone.

“Have you told her?” Rum’s voice was soft, almost tender, like silk. No, with that accent it was rougher than silk . . . wool, maybe? Wool was very Scottish.

“Told her what?” Mei-Xing’s voice, equally soft, sounded sharp and spiky, tearing holes in Rum’s tender golden croon.

“That you love her.” Oh, she felt a pleasant shiver as Rum formed the word ‘love.’ She was so distracted by the sound of his voice, that for a moment the words failed to register.

“What? You’re crazy.”

“No, no, lass. When we met in the clearing today, you would have cheerfully cut my head off if not for Mr. French’s prior claim on my life.” Wait, Rum thought Mei-Xing was _in love_ with her? Belle feigned sleep, incredibly curious about this turn in the conversation. In the two years of living in a tight-knit group sharing beds and seeing each other in every state of emotion or dishabille, Belle had never once felt that vibe from Mei-Xing. Granted, the younger girl had one hell of a poker face, but still . . .

“Belle is my _friend_ ,” Mei-Xing insisted. Rum replied with a low chuckle.

“No, no dearie. I’ve seen that look. Hell, I’ve worn that look. Belle-struck, definitely.”

“Belle and I have been through hell together. She and her father fought their way through a riot to rescue me. I owe her my loyalty and my friendship.” A faint tug on her hand signaled Rum’s shrug.

“Forbidden Sapphic passion would have been more interesting. Never fear, Storybrooke has a fine selection of young ladies to tempt you,” Rum said, in a cool, snide tone. Mei-Xing muttered in Chinese, to which Rum snorted.

“Now what did my grandmother do to you? I know for a fact she had very traditional tastes. The picture of a demure Scottish Catholic.”

“You speak Chinese?” Mei-Xing’s voice was soft with surprise.

“I once had a Chinese associate who taught me a few phrases. Enough to know when I was being insulted or cheated.” A moment’s pause began to coax Belle back into the soft haven of sleep.

“Is it true, Gold?” Mei-Xing asked. Rum’s reply was quick and glib.

“I never lie about business.”

“No, idiot. Belle. Do you . . . do you really love her?” Seconds passed, the words went unanswered and Belle thought Rum would ignore the question or sidestep it with a quip. His grip on her hand tightened fractionally.

“She is . . . my light in an ocean of darkness. She makes me want to be a better man. Please remember that when we reach Storybrooke.” The words struck a singing chord in her; she clutched them close, treasuring them.

“Good. She’s been through too much to have some dirty old man pawing at her.” After its previous coldness, Mei-Xing’s tone now sounded positively friendly.

“Aye. Thank you, by the way. For destroying that worm that touched her.”

“She told you about that?”

“Yes.”

“Take it as a warning for what is in store for you if you hurt her.”

“Dearie, if I hurt her, you’ll be the least of my worries.” Mei-Xing’s exhaled breath could be taken as a laugh, if you strained your ears.

“Get some rest, Gold. We can’t have you limping behind when we head to Storybrooke.”

“Charming as ever,” Rum drawled. Rum moved back behind her and she nestled into him with a soft croon. _My light in an ocean of darkness._ Sleepily, Belle wished she had Rum’s gift with words. The best she could say was that she loved him.    

 --

Dawn found them all buzzing with an undercurrent of tense excitement, and a wary, cautious hope. Rum wore his air of reserve like armor under the weight of Dad’s and Phil’s hard stares. They ate and packed in silence, David and Phil dismantling the locks while Rum and Dad moved the furniture blocking the back door. Cool and overcast, the forest looked decidedly eerie with fog seeping through the trees.  As they stuffed their supplies in the Honda’s hatchback, Belle was struck by a thought.

“How are we all going to fit?” she asked. The Honda conventionally sat five—six if Phil didn’t mind squeezing into the hatchback—but there were eight of them. They looked at each other and Emma giggled. Nervous laughter—quickly hushed and stifled—released some of the tension.

“Didn’t think of that, huh Pops?” Emma said, nudging David’s shoulder. David’s smile was quick and sheepish. Phil scratched the back of his head, considering.

“Could the girls sit in laps?” he said. Snow, fingers taut on her bow, shrugged.

“It’ll be a tight fit.”

“It’s going be like a bloody clown car, but I suppose there is no other option,” Rum said.

“We could go back to the cabin and get the van. Not to mention the rest of our supplies,” Dad said.

“No, I think we should leave it. We have the master fuses and some protection in place. Better we keep some supplies in case--” Phil trailed off, with a swift glance at Rum. In response, Rum made a lazy gesture as if to physically discard Phil’s words.

“No need to dance around it. In case something goes sour. That’s smart. I’m glad Belle’s people aren’t complete idiots,” he said, winking at Emma, who rolled her eyes.

“So glad we have your approval,” Mei-Xing grumbled. Snow raised her bow and loosed an arrow, killing a shambling walker. Two more were approaching. Mei-Xing trotted over to retrieve Snow’s arrow, dispatching both walkers as she did so.

“Whatever we do, let’s do it quickly. We don’t know how many more are out there,” Belle said, hand tight on her pistol.

“Pile in,” David said, with a shepherding gesture.

‘Piling in’ was managed with argument and cursing in three different languages. The result was David driving; Dad in the passenger seat—knees scrunched up against the dash and the rest of them crammed in the backseat in a tangle of denim-clad limbs and the awkward lumps of weapons holsters. Emma was on Snow’s lap, Mei-Xing on Phil’s, and Belle on Rum’s. Phil and Rum emanated stoic endurance at being shoulder to shoulder with one another, and through a cloud of dark hair, Belle shared a commiserating glance with Snow. Belle wiggled on Rum’s lap.

“Will I hurt your leg?” she whispered. In the warm haze of their love-making, Belle had discovered the gnarled scar tissue and odd lumpy appearance of his right ankle, the results of an unspecified accident. His cane lay across her lap, glossy black carbon fiber shaft topped with a hooked gold-plated handle. He moved so gracefully, she didn’t notice the cane most of the time, save when he was smashing skulls with it. 

“No, love. I’m fine,” he said, his smile a little pained. Belle bit her tongue at her gaffe. The only thing worse than being a cripple in his mind was her calling attention to it.

“Which way, Gold?” David asked, peering in the rearview mirror.

“Follow US-1 to the coast. You’ll run right into Storybrooke.”

“No one’s gonna shoot us, are they?” Dad asked. In response, Rum smiled a dragon’s toothy grin.

“Trust me.”            

 

They’d kept the sign. The quaint white wood with its swirling cursive script that read: _Welcome to Storybrooke_.

            “Cute,” Emma said dryly as they rolled passed. The windshield wipers made a soothing, rhythmic thump as they swept away the drizzle that was gradually deciding to become true rain.

“Why thank you, Miss Nolan,” Rum replied. An elegant twisting gesture and he said, “Here we are.” David wove through the detritus of burned out vehicles and around heaped bodies of walkers.

Belle squinted through the fogged windshield and the rain to find a _wall_ , a wall maybe fifteen feet tall of stacked tractor tires, wooden pallets and plate steel bristling with rivets. Armed men on patrol prowled along the upper edge, now aiming said weapons in their direction. The gate looked to be solid steel, roped with chains.   

“That’s close enough, Mr. Nolan. Allow me to open the door for you.” Rum grinned up at Belle and snatched a kiss, deep and thorough.

“Shall we?” he asked, and Belle summoned a thin smile, charmed by his playfulness and excited and terrified in equal measures at what awaited them in Storybrooke. As of now, her emotional state tipped far closer to the terrified end of the spectrum.

Belle kicked open the Honda’s door and stumbled out, grateful to stretch her limbs out full length and sucking in deep breaths of rain-fresh air. Rum followed, muttering a curse as he put weight on his bad leg.

“Nice and easy!” a female voice shouted from the wall. Belle put her hand on her pistol, squinting through the rain at the blond figure holding the rifle with practiced ease. Was that Regina?

“That’s quite enough, Miss Arlind. We come in peace.”

“Mr. Gold! We thought you were dead!” she said, lowering her weapon. Her voice, sharp with shock, held a note of welcome that set Belle’s teeth on edge.  Rum spread his arms.

“As you can see, I am not. I have found some new recruits. Please tell Mr. Greene to open the gate.”

“Of course.” The smile Rum aimed at Belle was quick and dazzling. A deep groan emanated from behind the wall, the creak of machinery.

“Kathryn Arlind. A very competent woman. She’s one of mine.” Belle nodded, fingers still white-knuckled on the grip of her pistol. Years of seeing the blackest impulses of humanity had taught her to avoid people. Strolling into a city made her twitchy. 

The gate creaked wide enough to admit them and they made their way toward the aperture, the Honda rolling alongside. A ring of armed men and women gathered at the gateway. Belle stared hard at each face, trying to discern if they were friend or foe. A faint amused corner of her noted that of a dozen heavily armed men and women, the slender man with the cane was the one who held the most authority.

“I apologize in advance,” Rum murmured in her ear as the gates slammed shut behind them. She frowned. _What are you up to?_ She thought. Her group spilled out of the Honda and gathered around her, bristling with weapons. The blond woman—Kathryn, Rum had named her—leapt from the last rung on the wall’s ladder.  

 “Mr. Gold, we’re glad you’re ok,” she said, adjusting her rifle on the military-style harness she wore, “Where are Tom and Walter?” Rum bowed his head.

“They didn’t make it,” he said. Nothing changed in Kathryn’s expression, not so much as a twitch of muscle in other woman’s face.

“I see,” she said thickly. Rum cleared his throat and asked, “Where is Leroy? I’ll tell him about his brothers myself.” Tension hummed through Kathryn’s slender frame. She cast a sharp glance at Belle and her group.

“He’s gone, Mr. Gold,” she said.

“He’s . . . gone,” Rum repeated, and in those soft words, Belle heard a wealth of warning concealed in cool menace. Kathryn looked acutely uncomfortable. Rum made a terse gesture.

“We’ll discuss that later. Allow me to introduce my rescuers. This is David Nolan, his wife Snow and their daughter Emma, Moe French and his daughter, Belle, Mei-Xing Fa, and Phillip . . .”

“Chevalier,” Phil said, spitting the word through clenched teeth. The crime lord breathed in that distant look in Rum’s eye, like they were strangers.  Belle understood. _A blind man could see I’m mad for you._ Rum would keep them all blind to his attachment to her, if he could. It still left her feeling cold and alone, surrounded by potential enemies.

“Yes,” Gold said, nodding impatiently, “Now, it is my rescuer’s wish to join us here. Let’s do our best to make them feel welcome.” The last he said with his shark’s smile. He made it sound more like a threat.

“Of course.” Kathryn’s gaze flickered over each of them.

“Welcome to Storybrooke,” she said.

Beyond the wall, Belle’s eyes gobbling up the wide residential street, clean and orderly, complete with flowerbeds and signs in the storefront windows. It was as if this place had been wholly untouched. Kathryn pointed down the street.

“You’ll find food at the diner,” Kathryn said. Rum already deep in conversation with one of the men, nodded encouragingly.

“Go on, I’ll be back later to make sure you’re settled in,” he said. Rum jerked his chin.

“Kathryn, go with them. I won’t have Mrs. Lucas shooting bolts at our guests.”

When they first met, Rum said names had power. He had named Belle ‘love’ and ‘warrior’ and ‘queen.’ She wouldn’t prove him wrong.

They paused at the door of a retro-looking diner, the broken glass reinforced with plywood. The tense excitement still sang in each of them, Belle could tell, but it was tempered more by their learned wariness. It wouldn’t do for Regina or any of her ilk to view them as weak. David hauled open the door and found the diner empty.

“Hmm. Granny must be out. She owned this place before, her and her granddaughter Ruby. Sit. I’ll fetch some food.” Kathryn shouldered past the metal door to the kitchen. Phil turned to them and whispered: “So who else thinks this place is kind of--”

“How about you keep your mouth shut and your hand on your weapon,” Mei-Xing hissed.

“Gold said this place was safe. _Look_ at it,” Snow whispered, quivering with painful hope.

“Gold said a lot of things. For now, everyone stick tight together and keep _quiet_ ,” David said with a curt swipe of his hand. Kathryn returned bearing a covered pot and a stack of disposable bowls and spoons.

“Chowder. Courtesy of Campbell’s,” she said, unsmiling.

“Thank you,” Snow said with the grace of a queen, sitting at one of the counter’s stools. Snow began to divvy up portions and each of them took their portion _quietly_. David was right, Belle thought. If there was a role to play, they had best be sure where they fit here. Listen, wait, watch. They hadn’t survived this long by trusting strangers. The soup was hot and delicious. Belle felt the warmth curl all the way down to her toes.

“Your accommodations will be at the B and B two doors down. Take any room on the second floor.”

“One room will do for us, thank you,” David said. _We will not be separated,_ was the glaring subtext. Kathryn shrugged.

“Suit yourself.” She braced her hands on the counter across from David, pinning him in place with a steely blue glare.

“How did you come to find Mr. Gold?” David stood up admirably under such hard scrutiny, Belle thought. He wiped his mouth on his cuff and answered: “Walkers had him up a tree, my wife killed them and helped Gold down.” An abbreviated, horribly edited version of true events that still didn’t explain Gold’s injuries, but still the truth. Kathryn seemed unconvinced. Belle eyed her warily, this woman was an enigma, but one who seemed loyal to Rum.

“Heroic,” Kathryn said, one brow arched. Tense silence swallowed any further conversation.

Once their meal was finished, they trailed after Kathryn, out of the diner and down the block to the rustic-looking building on the corner. A few clusters of people were smiling and nodding to each other on the street. If it weren’t for the boarded up windows, looming walls, and the holsters on every hip, you’d think it was any other rainy afternoon in Storybrooke. If they were surprised to see newcomers, their glances were furtive. Kathryn paused on the B and B’s porch, her stance fluid and easy, resting the heel of her hand on the butt of her gun. A jerk of her chin ushered them inside. 

Belle found the inn to be a comfy place, with braided rugs, wood paneling and floral wallpaper. Their room boasted a table, two chairs and a queen-sized bed. The boarded up windows and iron barricades on the doors were almost a comfort. For all its luxuries, Belle knew none of them would sleep easy tonight.

“There’re beds for you, hot showers, but make ‘em two minutes or less or they won’t be hot for long _.”_ Belle mastered her surprise. Bathing in the apocalypse usually meant a bucket of—at best—lukewarm water and a cake of cheap soap with only a stained sheet strung between a couple trees to protect your modesty.

“Curfew’s at dusk and it is strictly enforced. If you have any business that needs doing, do it before then. Gold will assign you tasks tomorrow. Safe night,” Kathryn said, with a thin approximation of a smile. It wasn’t until the downstairs door closed behind her that they breathed a sigh of relief. Emma leaned back onto the bed with a happy sigh. Snow sank onto the bed beside her, smoothing her gloved hand over the fluffy floral duvet.

“This is best we had it in a very long time,” she said softly.

“Perhaps too good to be true?” Mei-Xing said, stalking restlessly around the room. David nodded.

“Maybe. For now, we keep together, we keep quiet. We see what this place is really made of before we relax. Agreed?” he asked. They voiced their agreement. Then, he cracked a grin.

“Who’s up to the showers first?” he said, rubbing his palms together. A quick drawing of straws found David first in the shower. As they listened to the hiss of water against tile down the hall, Snow sidled up to Belle.

“So Gold was--”

“Don’t start, Snow. He had reasons for what he did, and they are not up for discussion right now,” Belle said, as gently as she could manage. Her family might take offense at this perceived slight. Mischief lurked in Snow’s smile.

“I was going to say, I see where the attraction is now. He’s . . . charismatic, isn’t he?” Belle grinned.

“Yes, he is. An ass, but charismatic all the same. He charmed a kiss from me the night we met.”

“Really? How?” Emma asked, bouncing up onto her knees on the bed. Belle regretted mentioning it. The story inched too close to Bae, and she knew Rum held his son close to his heart. Belle touched her pack, feeling the reassuring crackle of paper in the front pocket.

“A sad story,” she answered. David saved her from elaborating by emerging flushed and clean-shaven from the shower.

“Who’s next?” he asked.

The shower stall was cramped with a mildewed shower curtain and hard water stains on the tile, but the water was wonderfully, blessedly hot. Belle uttered an almost pained groan as she stepped under the spray, breathing in swirling steam and watching her pale skin bloom with a rush of blood. The shower floor bristled with bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel. Belle emerged less than two minutes later limp-limbed and dressed in fresh clothes.

Emma and Snow, freshly clean, were already curled asleep on the bed. The men had gallantly surrendered the bed to the girls, and Belle took the edge with Emma behind her. Belle must have slept too, for when she next looked, the room was dark and quiet, the familiar sound of communal breathing soothing her. A sharp knock broke the peace. It was after dusk, after curfew. Whoever was at the door had no business being there. David was up with his gun leveled at the door. Belle stood with her pistol in hand, her heart pounding. Around her, her family stirred, reaching wordlessly for their weapons.

“Who’s there?” David said. Mei-Xing hefted her sheathed sword. Phil yanked the door open and stopped.

 “There really _are_ new people in Storybrooke! Cool!” a young boy’s voice squeaked.

“Hey, kid. Who are you?” Phil said, sounding equal parts startled and amused. Belle shouldered her way past him to find a boy with messy brown hair grinning at them in the light of their flashlight, swallowed by a leather jacket.

“I’m Henry,” he said, with a cute, shy grin, scuffing a dirty sneaker on the rug, “Is that a real sword? Do you know how to use it?” He pointed to Mei-Xing, face alight with wonder. Phil leaned over Belle’s shoulder and looked down the empty hall, now close and creepy as the shadows pressed in.

“Did you come here by yourself, Henry? Where’s your family?” Belle asked.

“He’s with me.” A low Scottish voice rippled over Belle’s nerves like a caress. She saw Henry grin a little smugly and with a jolt, she recognized the leather jacket around him.

“ _Gold_?” Phil’s incredulous tone made her turn and in the light of her flashlight, Belle gasped at the sight of him. He was in a suit, a sleek dark pinstripe, complete with a deep blue pocket square and tie. God, the man was born to wear a suit. Rum’s grin revealed the glint of his gold tooth, eyes gentle on the boy.

“Henry, I’m sure our guests would like some rest. If you ask nicely, perhaps Miss Fa will showcase her swordplay tomorrow. Hurry down to Granny’s, your mother is waiting for you.” Henry cast a hungry glance at Mei-Xing’s sword, but obeyed with a cheery wave.

“See you guys later!” he said. Rum stepped forward and they watched the boy clatter down the stairs and burst outside.

“Regina’s son. A fine boy,” Rum said, and in his tone, Belle heard his longing for Bailey. She couldn’t help but notice how the suit hung on his slender frame, the soft fall of his clean hair, his hot, hungry eyes on her. Belle’s heart pounded against her ribs, both from her abrupt awakening and his own allure. 

“I hope all of you have enjoyed Storybrooke’s refreshments. I know I was grateful to wash off all the mud and blood. Might I speak to Belle? Alone?” he asked. Dad, Phil and Mei-Xing subtly gathered around Belle.

 “I don’t think she wants to talk to you, Mr. Gold. Perhaps its best you leave,” Mei-Xing snapped. A subtle change shifted over Rum’s form. A stiffening of his posture, a hardening of his gaze. This was the crime lord, the man who had killed with coldblooded ease.

“If Belle wants me to leave, I will. But don’t make the mistake of thinking you hold the power here, dearie.” The words were spoken low and soft, his deep voice layering menace into the syllables. Belle glared at Mei-Xing.

“Don’t speak for me unless I ask you to,” Belle said. A flicker of emotion danced across the younger girl’s face, gone too quickly for Belle to name.

“If you stop threatening my family, I might want to talk, Rum,” Belle said dryly to cover her pounding heart. Rum’s mouth curled in a smirk, his eyes softening and Belle felt herself melt.

“Of course, forgive me,” he said with a penitent bow, “Will you grace me with your presence, Miss French?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update my lovelies. 
> 
> Reviews are like brains to hungry zombie.


	6. New Sheriff in Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparks fly.

Part 6: New Sherriff in Town

 

Rum led her downstairs to the parlor, lit by a fire roaring in the grate. He limped toward a small table laden with two glasses and a small dish of ice. A raised eyebrow was his offer of a drink, which Belle accepted with a gracious nod. He poured from a thick glass bottle, then added a liberal dash from another. Belle took her glass and settled in one of the overstuffed chairs nestled by the fire. Pleasant heat sank through the armor of her jeans, a sharp contrast to the chill of the glass seeping a ring of condensation onto her thigh. Rum eased onto the chair opposite her, the firelight gilding him. Absurdly, she was reminded of the night in that ruined strip mall, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Rum had the grace to look sheepish.

“It was to keep you safe, Belle. Association with me is dangerous.” He broke off; a short painful pause.

“Look what happened to Bae.” His harsh whisper struck her heart hard. Carefully, she set her drink down on wood flooring. She exhaled a breath through her nostrils.

“Rum . . . It’s not the same thing. I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself. Not to mention my family would probably kill anyone that looked at us funny. You could have, I don’t know, _discussed_ it with me beforehand, that way I could’ve backed you up, or better yet, talked you out of it.”

A muscle fired in his jaw. There was a sad, faraway look in his eyes, the ghost of a wound she couldn’t touch. She lunged, grasping the cool blue silk of his tie and yanking him to her. The kiss was all blazing passion with a lover’s familiarity, the pleasurable thrust of his tongue, the fingers of her free hand fisted in his hair. She pulled away with a hard smack. Liquid dark eyes regarded her in the firelight, smoldering. He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said.

“You’re forgiven. Everything will be all right. You’re not alone anymore,” she whispered. This time, it was him that kissed her, long and deep and breath-stealingly passionate. Belle melted, persuaded by his kisses along her throat and the pulse of the fire at her back.

The fabric of his suit coat was soft beneath her fingers, but every bit as much armor as his leather jacket. A selfish, hungry part of her wanted him bare, naked and trembling under her hands and mouth. She would tattoo her possession of him into his flesh until that soft, disbelieving look disappeared. Rum rested his forehead against hers, breath blooming warm and swift between them. 

“That will take some getting used to,” he murmured, the words quivering a little. Belle tightened her grip on him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said fiercely. Rum drew her up and they nestled next to each other in one of the chairs. Belle tucked her head beneath his chin.

“You might have more allies than you realize. Kathryn is very . . . protective of you.” A hint of jealousy crept into her voice. Rum snorted. 

“Protective? Hardly. I gave her food and shelter, the doctor here stitched her lover back together. She’s a woman who recognizes a debt, and doesn’t flinch away from paying it. There are a handful I would trust, but Regina . . .” Belle exhaled through her nostrils, her hand falling on her pistol grip.

“I think Regina and I are going to have a little chat. Very soon,” she said. Rum chuckled.

“I have no doubt to that. Storybrooke will tremble before you. But not tonight, love. Stay with me,” he whispered, tightening his grip. Belle turned her face into the silky fabric of his collar, pressing her lips to his sinewy throat and the soft leap of his pulse.

“We stay together,” she said. He breathed his fervent agreement into her hair, pressing a hard kiss to her brow. Idly, Belle toyed with the end of his tie.

“So what’s with the suit?” she asked, admiring his profile. He grinned. He twisted his hand in an elegant gesture.

“Ah, you met me in my rough scouting clothes. The mayor of Storybrooke needs a little more gravitas,” he teased.

“The world has ended and you decide to wear a three piece Armani?” Belle said, delighted by his playful mood.

Rum nuzzled her hair, twisting a little to whisper in her ear: “It’s theater, love. Part of the role. If I _look_ as if nothing has changed, as if I am powerful enough and safe enough to stroll about town in my finest clothes . . . then I _am_. The power of suggestion.”

“That’s . . . brilliant. You’re an evil genius,” she said, bumping her forehead against his.

“And you’re just realizing this?” he teased. She chuckled, smoothing his lapel.

“These suits are perfectly tailored. A discerning observer couldn’t even tell they’ve been cut generously enough to hide the shoulder holsters.” Belle curled a finger around his lapel, peeling the suit coat wide enough to see the gleam of gold on the butt of his pistol. Its twin rested on the other side. Rum shrugged.

“In the great state of Maine, it is perfectly legal to carry a concealed firearm. I can even show you my permit.”

“The picture of a law-abiding citizen,” Belle drawled.

“That’s me,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. Silence fell between them, broken only by the fire murmuring to itself.

“Have you tried your drink?” Rum asked, pointing to her abandoned glass.

There was a speculative gleam in his eye that roused her curiosity. Arching a brow, she rose and snagged her glass from the floor. Beneath the thin gulp of ice melt, Belle tasted the potent burn of rum softened by sweet, effervescent Coke.

“You marvelous bastard,” she said. His grin was catlike and self-satisfied.

“So you like it, hmm?” Belle wanted to savor it, she really did, but she drained her glass in seconds, loving the drink and the anxious, conciliatory gesture behind it. Belle smacked her lips and thumped the glass on the table beside his.

“Pour a girl another drink, Mr. Gold, and you might just get lucky tonight,” she said, feeling warm and loose. He grew still, a familiar sleepy look of lust darkening his eyes. Warmth curled in her belly, the long-unaccustomed alcohol mingling with heady lust and a lush feeling of . . . of belonging. Where ever he was, she wanted to be too.

“Is that so, Miss French?” Belle bit her lip at the sinuous, Scottish drawl.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. Her fingers braided with his, pulling him up, pulling him toward one of the rooms upstairs.

“Wait a moment, Belle,” he said.

“What is it?” she asked, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. His smirk was gentle, teasing.

“One of Storybrooke’s perks is privacy. Would you like to come home with me?”

“What about curfew?” she asked.

“Mayor,” he deadpanned, pointing to his chest. Belle laughed.

“Ok. Let me tell the others. I don’t want them to worry for me.”

“Of course,” he said.                  

 

‘Home’ for Rum turned out to be his shop just down the street from the bed and breakfast.

“It wasn’t feasible to defend the neighborhoods surrounding Storybrooke. We moved everyone here along Main Street. The bay was a natural defense, and the cannery and the docks left us with plenty of raw materials. The hospital is beyond the wall, but we scavenged everything that wasn’t nailed down. Dr. Whale has made himself a fine little surgery where the post office used to be,” Rum explained as they angled across the deserted street to the shop. The street was completely dark, and so quiet. Stepping outside had taken a bite out of her euphoria. Cold air and open space told her humming instincts danger could be close. Her hand didn’t leave the grip of her pistol.

“Every one of them here has been on the road. Some since all this started. They take curfew very seriously,” he whispered, hooking his cane over his forearm as he reached for his keys.

“Very wise,” Belle replied. Overhead hung a battered sign reading:

**Mr. Gold**

Pawnbroker

& Antiquities Dealer

The place wasn’t completely untouched. Belle noticed that his glass storefront had been broken too, reinforced with plywood and screens of welded rebar. The interior was a wonder in any world. The upper shelves and glass cases were crammed with trinkets and curios, the remainder of the space held more practical supplies: boxes of sterile bandages, ammunition canisters, tub after tub of indistinguishable metal parts that Phil would have a field day poring over. Belle heard the metal _thunk_ of Rum relocking the door behind them.

“No one who valued their lives tried to steal from me. I have a bit of a reputation in Storybrooke. I sold most of my stock before everything crashed. I kept the most valuable—my favorites,” he said, moving past her to turn on a lantern. His gaze wandered over the shelves and Belle watched him run the mental inventory. She had once been the same, running her hands over the spines and covers of her favorite books as if to assure each that she cherished them. That sparked a thought.

“You said there was a library?” she asked. Rum brightened.

“Yes. It’s been closed for years, but still stocked. I happen to know the proprietor, if you’d like to take a look,” he said, grinning. Belle was smote by a wave of intense feeling. He would give her her favorite drink and a library with equal nonchalance.

“I love you,” she said. Rum’s smile faltered, eyes flaring wide and dark and hungry. God, he looked at her as if she had hung the moon and the stars.

“Oh Belle,” he breathed, reaching for her. She flung her arms around him, breathing deep of his musky scent, overlaid with the scent of spicy soap and fine cloth.

“That will take some getting used to,” he said again, choked. Belle held him tighter, listening to the easy flow of his breathing, the low thud of his heartbeat.

“Get used to it,” she whispered. After a moment, she peeled back and arched a brow.

“You ah . . . mentioned privacy. Does that include a bed?” His expression caught fire.

“This way,” he rasped. 

He led her behind the curtain, and Belle had the vague impression of a craftsman’s workshop, tools, and dozens of guns in various stages of production. A quick left turn and then he led her up a steep set of narrow stairs, almost a ladder, to a hinged trapdoor. The upstairs was lost in inky darkness and Belle lingered on top step as Rum melted into the shadows. She stifled a laugh listening to him rummage about, muttering in a mixture of English and Gaelic. In the warmth of the shop behind locked doors, Belle felt some of the deep-seated fear loosen. Their first encounters were frantic with the clamor of adrenaline, lust, and emotional upheaval. Every touch and kiss since had been rushed and under unfriendly eyes.  For her part, Belle would greatly enjoy being able to linger, to explore in utter freedom. The thought stirred the ache in her belly into something deeper, sharper.

“Here’s the bloody thing,” he muttered. A lighter was struck and Belle admired the angle of his profile in the weak light, the dark gleam of his eye, the glint of silver in his hair. He lit a trio of fat candles on the square nightstand. That bubble of golden light softly illuminated a full sized bed. Belle squinted beyond it, seeing a couple stacked boxes and nothing else in the windowless attic room. 

“Romantic,” she said, easing the trap door closed. Rum raked a hand through his hair. He shrugged, his expression unreadable under the curtain of his hair.

“It has its advantages. Look, if you don’t want to stay here, we can find another--” Rum began to say. Belle frowned.

“Why wouldn’t I want to stay here?” she asked. He gave her a helpless look.

“You deserve a better place. My house—before it burned down—had a lovely bedroom, and a balcony where you could read, and--” Belle halted him with a finger pressed to his lips.

“Rum, after an apocalypse the standards of fine living change a little. This place is safe, clean, and private. It’s perfect.” His smile was crooked, wry.

“You’re too good for me, love.”

“Just call me your sweet voice of reason,” she quipped, leaning up to kiss his lips.

She’d meant it to be a quick, flirtatious peck, but he captured her. His hands, his deft, callused hands rose to frame her face between them, deepening the contact. Belle let out a low hum of approval, opening to the sweet brush of tongue. She lost herself in the languid surge of the kiss, loving his taste and the low heavy pulse of pleasure in her belly. She dug her hands into his suit coat, needing to feel the shape and heat of him pressed against her. The move unbalanced him, and belatedly she realized he’d set down his cane.

He grunted and sat on the edge of the bed, Belle slurred an apology against his lips, moving to straddle his lap, a mirror to their first encounter. The next minutes were lost in a blur of heated pleasure, swift breathing and smothered groans, the warm, wet press of lips and the texture of skin, the sharp nip of white teeth—Belle uttered a whimper when he nipped a particularly sensitive spot on her throat.

“I love you, Belle,” he breathed the words against her skin. She clung to him, panting and quivering. She moaned at the words, those beautiful words, rewarding him with a kiss, hands fisted in his hair.

“I love you, Rum. Need you. Please,” she murmured. He growled, twisting her beneath him on the bed. She hummed, welcoming his weight, his heat. She arched against his hardness, winding her leg over his calf.

“Patience, Belle. Easy, love,” he chastised her with a playful bite on her chin. She nodded, gulping down sweet oxygen. Rum grinned at her, sinking back onto his heels to finish her sloppy attempt at unbuttoning his suit coat.

“Let’s dispense with the firepower first, hmm?” he said with an arched brow, pulling his guns from their holsters and setting them on the nightstand.

“You distracted me,” she said with a mock pout, rolling to her feet. She braced her foot on the edge of the bed and dealt with the laces before pulling her gun from its holster and laying it beside his. In the apocalypse, Belle mused, it was a homey domestic gesture to lay your weapons together. She toed out of her shoes and socks, satisfied that her ankle had healed. Rum shrugged out of his suit coat and empty holsters, hand moving to his tie.

“Keep the tie,” she blurted. At his puzzled glance, she offered a sly grin. Belle wound her hand around the tie, using it as a leash to pull him to her for a kiss.

“I like it,” she said softly.

“I’ll keep the tie,” he promised, looking dazed. Belle released him, kneeling to help remove his shoes and socks. She took particular care with the injured one, his right, peeling off the grey argyle sock.  On impulse, she bent and pressed a kiss to the knotted scar tissue.

“Belle,” he breathed, his expression almost pained. “Come here.”

She obeyed eagerly, nestling on the bed and welcoming him atop her. She drank in how beautiful he looked by candlelight. They had all the time in the world. She could look and touch and kiss all she wanted. Rum seemed to agree as he settled over her. He took his time spreading her hair over the pillow, dark eyes moving over her, as if to memorize her.

“Belle, my beautiful Belle,” he murmured. She felt breathless and giddy beneath his watchful perusal. She carded her fingers through his hair; it felt like warm silk between her fingers, dark brown and grey, with glints of gold. Gently, she tugged him down for a kiss. Mmm, the man was a wonderful kisser. His wicked tongue teased and tangled with hers, pausing now and again to tease the roof of her mouth. Despite her best efforts to drink every look and touch, the next minutes blurred under the persuasion of Rum’s talented fingers and the hot bloom of arousal in her blood.

At last, she lay naked beneath him, and Rum clad in only his boxers and the sapphire blue tie. Her questing touches were gently diverted, and Belle exhaled through her nostrils. Rum wanted to focus on her, and while his dedication to her pleasure was wonderful, she wanted to _unravel_ him. She wanted to see him helpless and begging under her touch, as he could do so easily with her. _Later_ , she promised herself. 

Any semblance of languor evaporated when his mouth mapped burning trails of pleasure on her skin. The low, slow-burn simmering of pleasure erupted into a violent boil as Rum closed his lips around her hardened nipple. His hand rested on her belly, teasing the crease of her hip with a fingertip. Belle uttered a sharp cry, arching up, fingers digging into his scalp. He suckled her nipple, first one, then the other. Plucking gently with his teeth . . . the sensation delicately, maddeningly teased the throbbing ache between her legs.

“Rum, Rum please . . .” Her nipple popped from his mouth, and Rum looked debauched and gorgeous with his lips moist and reddened, hair mussed and eyes dark with desire. He smirked.

“How do you want me, love?” God, his voice was a sexual instrument, with that rolling burr, the depth and timbre of it. His fingers teased her curls in random, gentle petting.

“Your . . . your mouth. Please,” she panted.

“So polite. So _sweet_ ,” he growled, plunging his tongue into her mouth; it was a devouring, marauding kiss that robbed her of thought and will. As exquisite the pleasure of his touch, beneath it was a deeper, glorious freedom, a breathless euphoria in surrendering to him. Trust, pleasure, _joy_. Belle squirmed as he placed kisses on her belly, the curve of her hip. The first lap of his tongue on her flesh had her soaring into a glittering climax.

“Oh _Belle_ ,” he said, and she saw his eyes widen in an expression of almost wicked glee. Belle bit a pillow, tasting fluff and grit as Rum dismantled her sanity with the skillful motion of his tongue, his fingers, curling inward—her second climax left her twitching and weak as a kitten. Rum pulled her into an embrace, smacking his lips and grinning.  Smug bastard. She nuzzled his chest, trying to regain command of her limbs.

“Rum, you wicked, marvelous bastard,” she breathed, pressing a kiss over his heart.

“Enjoyed yourself, did you?” he drawled. Belle slid her hand into his boxers, cupping his cock.

“Yes. And only one thing would make it perfect,” she said, smiling wickedly at him. Her thumb rubbed the weeping head of his cock back and forth, back and forth. Rum groaned, thrusting into her caressing hand.

“What . . . what is that?” he gasped. Belle leaned up, tracing the shell of his ear with her tongue.

“You. Inside me,” she whispered, biting his ear lobe for emphasis.

“Christ,” he said, and Belle couldn’t tell if it was a curse, or a prayer. Rum tore off the tie and his boxers, shoving her on her back as he prepared to enter her. Belle leaned back on her nest of pillows, admiring the ferocity of his arousal, the taut neatness of his shape, the sparse triangle of hair between his nipples, the girth of his erect cock. She licked her lips.

They both uttered a low sigh as he pushed in with a few gentle thrusts. Hot, mindless pleasure shivered through her as her body accepted him. The edges of her vision pulsed.

“Belle,” he said, and this time she knew it was a prayer. Belle linked her ankles around him, wanting nothing more than to keep him buried within her forever.

Rum began to thrust and time seemed to blur and stretch. Nothing existed except for the surge of his body into hers, the sawing of their breathing, his sweet dark eyes drinking her in. So good, fuck he felt so _good_. She felt her orgasm building from a long way off, she fought against the sucking pull of it, already mourning the loss of this glorious connection. His name, broken fragments of endearments punctuated by pleas for _more_ , _harder_ fell from her lips. He labored over her with plunging hips, sloppy kisses and frantic pleas, his own release looming. Rum snarled, slamming into her body once, twice more before he erupted inside her. The feel of his seed filling her pulled another orgasm from her; burning pleasure began in her exquisitely tormented center and burst out, clenching quivering muscles and tearing a ragged cry from kiss-bruised lips.  Rum collapsed against her, boneless and panting. Belle blinked as she eased down from her high, listening to Rum’s low murmurs.

 _“Mo stór. . . mo chroí._ _A ghrá geal . . ._ ” Languid and trembling from his climax, he mouthed the words against her neck, the cradle her shoulder. Belle stroked his back, petting where she’d scratched him in her passion. Basking in the soft, post-coital glow, she kissed his sweat-damp hair.

“What does that mean? I’m not familiar with Gaelic pillow-talk.” 

“They’re just pet names,” he murmured.

“What do they mean?” she pressed. Rum heaved himself off her chest, gifting her with the sweetest of lazy smiles.

“My treasure.” He kissed her cheek, “My heart.” A kiss on her nose.

“Beloved,” he breathed the last against her lips. He pulled free from her and started to roll off of her. Belle held him, not ready to break the connection yet. Rum subsided, nestling atop her with a soft hum, dragging the blankets up over their cooling bodies. Belle pressed a kiss to his forehead. What should she call him? Darling? Honey? Sweetheart? Nothing suited him.

“Mine,” she said, at last.

“Hmm?” he asked, sinking toward sleep.

“You’re mine,” Belle said softly. Rum roused himself enough to blow out the candles, leaving them in warm darkness.

“Aye, love. Yours.”

 

Belle woke to the soft red glow of candlelight behind her eyelids, a faint thud. She stirred with a sleepy murmur.

“Sorry, love,” Rum said, and Belle cracked open one eye to find her lover in an interesting ensemble composed of his slacks and suit coat, prying open the trap door. Feeling languid and pleasurably sore, Belle stretched beneath the covers.           

“Whatcha doin’?” she asked, her words husky and slurred with sleep.

“Midnight snack,” he said. Belle frowned, dragged to wakefulness by the mental picture of him trying to manage food and drink enough for the two of them with the stairs and his cane.

“I’ll get it,” she said, braving the chilly room to shimmy into her jeans and shrug into Rum’s black collared shirt.

“I can manage, love.” There was an edge of steel in his tone. Belle wound her arms around his shoulders, fingers toying the hair at his nape. Rum’s warm hand cupped her hip while the other idly stroked her belly between the wings of his stolen, half-open shirt.

“I know that, Rum. But I like being useful. Let me help . . . _muh_ . . . _muh kree_.” Rum winced at her mangled attempt Gaelic, chuckling.

“I’d stick to English, love,” he said. Relieved she’d made him laugh, Belle kissed him. Breaking free with a wet smack, Rum gifted her with his patented expressive grin.

“You’ll find breakfast rolls next to the hot plate in the back, plus some instant coffee, if there’s any left,” Rum said, buttoning the top three buttons of the shirt she wore.  

“ _Coffee_?” she repeated.

“Aye,” he said, with a smug smirk. Belle snorted, nudging Rum’s nose with her own.

“The wonders of Storybrooke never cease.” He shrugged.

“When everything began to crumble, Granny paid me rent in goods.”

Belle sought her pistol by force of habit.

“Now get back in bed, Gold,” she said, thrusting her gun into the empty holster at her hip. Rum’s arms laced around her waist from behind, his lips warm and soft against her neck.

“I do love a woman that takes charge. I will accede to your wishes, love. Hurry back.” The words were punctuated with a nip to the love bite adorning her neck. Belle threw a coy smile over her shoulder before she descended the stairs.

Lit by the warm glow of a lantern, Belle rummaged through the back room, finding the hot plate, a heap of individually packaged rolls, dimpled with the suggestion of filling, and two precious packets of instant coffee. Belle set about heating water for the coffee in a battered kettle.

“What are you doing in here?” A dry female voice said. Belle had her pistol drawn and pointed at the source of the voice before she’d consciously thought. A woman stood in the doorway, calmly aiming her own weapon at Belle’s chest. A man stood beside her, brandishing a rifle in Belle’s direction.

“It’s impolite to startle people, and dangerous, these days,” Belle said, nodding toward her pistol. She turned her weapon to show her finger was off the trigger, but did not lower it. The woman’s dark eyes glittered beneath the soft fringe of her bangs, but she lowered her weapon, the man following suit. Belle kept hers in hand at her side, her heart hammering beneath the fragile protection of Rum’s half-buttoned shirt.  

“Mr. Gold invited me here. What are _you_ doing in his shop?” Belle asked with a raised brow. The woman’s ramrod posture straightened, red lips thinning into a frown.

“We have business to discuss.” Belle narrowed her eyes.

“He’s indisposed. Come again in the morning.”

Outrage flared in the woman’s eyes, and she stepped toward Belle with the authoritative rap of heeled boots.

“And I’m supposed to believe that dried up old man let a hussy like you come in here and--”

Old man? _Hussy_? Anger began to churn and boil, at the woman’s arrogant style, poor manners, and Rum’s tiny omission that his sheriff looked like fucking supermodel. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Belle interrupted her with a sharp gesture.

“Regina, right? We got off on the wrong foot. I’m Belle. I’m new in Storybrooke.” Regina folded her arms over her chest with the faint squeak of her fitted black leather jacket, disdain dripping from every pore.

“Yes, Gold told me of your heroic rescue.”

“Well Sheriff, if you know about the rescue, then you know about my group. We’ll earn our keep, and we could be valuable assets in Storybrooke, allies. I’d like us to work together. If not . . .”

Belle let the sentence hang, glancing at her companion. Was this Graham, her pet as Rum called him? The handsome young man stood silent; at second glance, he looked scarcely older than Emma, with the hopeful scruff of a man’s beard on his cheeks. His dark eyes were glitteringly intelligent, but there was something in his posture that spoke of . . . timidity. 

A look of beatific surprise graced Regina’s flawless face, then it twisted into an expression of mingled disbelief and rage.

“Are you threatening me? Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?”

“No of course not, Sheriff. Call it a friendly reminder. I’m sure Mr. Gold will deal with Storybrooke’s business at a more reasonable hour.” Regina slapped an open palm on the table between them.

“Listen here, you little--”

“Is anyone in imminent danger?”

“That’s  not--”

“Is the town secure?”

“For now, but--”

“Then it can _wait_ , Sheriff,” Belle said, deftly snagging the kettle before it began to wail. Regina’s mouth worked like a beached fish, and when she marshaled breath to begin again, another voice cut her off.

“You heard the lady, Regina. It can _wait_ ,” Rum said from his place leaning against the stairs, arms folded over his chest. Regina composed herself admirably, Belle thought, straightening her jacket with sharp snap.

“We’ll speak tomorrow, Gold.”

“Of course. Good night, Regina, Graham.” Regina marched out, Graham trailing at her heels, silent as a ghost. When the shop’s door slammed closed behind them, Rum closed the space between them.

“Have I told you today that I fucking love you?” he rasped, dragging her in for a kiss. Belle made a soft sound of pleasant surprise against his lips. He broke away, eyes glittering.

“I don’t know why I worried, really. You’re bloody brilliant.” Belle smiled, a worthy imitation of his patented curling grin, basking in a triumphant glow.

“Thank you, Rum.”

They finished preparing their snack in companionable silence. The first taste of her coffee was gritty and blindingly strong, searing her taste buds. It was delicious. The breakfast rolls were passable, filled with cheese sauce and something that could be passed off as sausage. Belle boosted herself onto the counter, swinging her legs idly in the open air. Rum took his ease on the swiveling chair at his worktable, bare feet propped on the lip of the table. Belle appreciated the view of his pale torso beneath the tails of his suit coat, especially the tantalizing trail of hair below is navel. 

“What’s the deal with Regina and Graham? You called him her pet?” she asked around her chewy mouthful of roll. Rum paused to sip his coffee, drinking from a mug that read: _Greetings from the Pine Tree State!_  

“They have an . . . odd relationship. From what I’ve gleaned from Regina, he lived next door to her: delivered the newspaper, mowed the lawn for her, things of that sort.” Rum set his mug down, lacing his fingers behind his head as he reclined.

“Innocent enough,” Belle remarked, eyeing Rum warily.

“Aye,” he said, “Regina says the boy had a crush on her. Anyway, when all this hit, it went badly for Graham. A rotter got his mother, and then he watched his mother . . . _eat_ his little sister.”

“Shit,” Belle said, with a faint shudder of sympathy.

“Before it could do the same to Graham, Regina put it down. From then on, Graham has followed her around like a puppy. The two of them have been through hell and back before they came here.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad. Strong bonds can be forged during intense situations,” she said, with a pointed glance at him. Rum’s smile was a pained grimace.

“She’s fucking the boy,” he said.

“How old is he?”

“Nineteen, I think. They . . . consummated their relationship the day she put down his mother. Three years ago.” Sixteen, and she in her early to mid-thirties? It didn’t look good from the outside. But then again, neither did a fifty-some year old man and a twenty-five year old woman.

“Did he . . . does he _want_ to?” Belle asked, feeling faintly nauseous. Rum shrugged.

“I don’t know, love. What I know of them both doesn’t help. Regina . . . likes control. He is wholly devoted to her, almost slavishly so. She could have been grooming the boy for years, I don’t know. I just know their relationship isn’t healthy.”

“Poor Graham. Someone needs to get him away from her, to talk to him, see what _he_ wants.” Rum snorted into his coffee.

“Good luck, love. He’s her bloody shadow.” Belle frowned at the closed curtain, a heavy golden fabric patterned with leaves and roses.

“I’ll think of something,” she murmured. She slid off the counter, brushing a couple crumbs from Rum’s borrowed shirt. Thoughts of Regina and Graham vanished behind the locked door, and Belle smiled. She and Rum were alone again.

“So where were we? Oh yes, I told you to stay in bed.” Rum’s expression moved from serious contemplation to a lazy sort of anticipation. Belle felt Rum’s filthy chuckle all way down to her toes.

“Let’s rectify that oversight, hmm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like brains to a hungry zombie. Delicious.


	7. A Lost Boy

 

 

Belle cracked open an eyelid at the dip in the mattress, a soft rustle of cloth and Rum’s stifled grunt. The room was lit by one of the candles and she squinted balefully at the light. Belle sighed softly, burrowing deeper beneath the heavy warmth of the sheets and coverlet, tightening the grip of her arms and legs wound around Rum.

“Aye, love. I’m here,” he whispered, breath warm against her forehead. A soft crumple of paper roused her. She opened her eyes and peeked up at his face from beneath the covers. Belle glimpsed a faraway look on his face, and the cherished paper, which she now saw was a photo. He handed her the picture with a wobbling smile, the edges worn from usage. A gawky young man looked back at her from beneath a fringe of black hair, eyes as soulful and dark as his father’s. His smile was white and blinding as he brandished a fish on a line, his arm draped casually over Rum’s shoulders.

“Tell me about him,” she murmured, floundering through the tangled covers to nestle beside him. Rum’s smile was heartbreakingly sad. He pecked a kiss on her shoulder, then regarded the picture.

“It was our only catch of the day. Bae said we had to commemorate the smallest trophy fish in Maine,” he said. Belle smiled.

“He sounds sweet.”

“He was. Such a sweet lad. And brave. So easy to love.” Rum bowed his head, his mouth firmed into a hard line. Her heart ached to comfort him. She laid her hand over his.

“We’ll find him. We will.” She would do everything in her power to make those words true. Bae was alive. He had to be. Family and the blind stubborn hope to keep _going . . ._ well, that was the only thing they had left now.

 

 

Breakfast surrounded by her family at Granny’s was a silent affair, though a quiver of excitement raced through them. The fare consisted of cereal and powdered milk, powdered eggs with fried Spam, washed down with flavored water. Rum had abjured from any awkward encounter with her father, stating there was business to be done, and ruffled sheriff’s feathers to smooth. Widow ‘Granny’ Lucas presided over her diner with stern blue eyes peering over her spectacles, and wielding a crossbow with supreme nonchalance. Ruby, her granddaughter, towered over Belle clad in a mish-mash of black leather and red.

“So where did you guys come from? Gold says you saved him,” she asked, draping herself over the edge of the counter. Phil’s eyes flickered over her appreciatively. Crunching on her Frosted Flakes, Belle glanced expectantly at David. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and said, “We were scouting and found Gold treed by walkers. My wife put the walkers down.” The same words, unchanging in their repetition. The best lies, they said, stuck as close to the truth as possible.

“Hmm. Good with that bow, huh?” Ruby said, nudging Snow’s shoulder companionably. Snow smiled brightly in response.

 “You call ‘em walkers? Funny how we all have different names for them. Granny and I call them biters.”

“Good a name as any,” Phil put in, giving Ruby his patented crooked grin.

“You all better finish up. I’m sure Regina and Gold will want to assign you,” Granny Lucas said, making a vague shooing motion with her hands.

“Could you good ladies give us any details on these ‘assignments?’” Phil asked. Ruby shrugged.

“You gotta earn your keep around here. Granny and I run the diner. Kathryn and Fred run patrols on the wall, Whale sometimes needs help in the surgery. Any of you got medical experience?”

“Snow did a fine job of stitching me up when I cut my arm,” David said, rolling up the sleeve of his plaid shirt to display the scar on his forearm. 

“I can use a needle and thread, that’s all,” Snow said. Granny snorted, swiping down the already immaculate countertop with a rag.

“That’s better than some of these punks who took one semester of biology, saw a couple of _ER_ reruns, and decided they were a doctor,” Granny said. Belle chuckled, gathering her empty paper bowl and cup and tossing it into the garbage. The rest of them gradually followed suit with thanks to Granny and Ruby.

“Sheriff’s station is down Main Street on the left. Regina and Gold should be there,” Ruby said.

“Thank you,” David said, and together they left the diner.

The day had dawned brisk and sunny, a strong cold wind bearing the sea’s brine gusting through the ragged American flag hanging over one of the shops. In the distance, Belle could see the reassuring bulk of the wall. Small groups conducted their business along Main Street: an older woman ushered a group of school age children toward the diner, Belle watched an elderly gentleman and a dark-haired man unload supplies from the bed of a truck. The younger man—presumably his son—was missing a leg. A wooden prosthesis peeked from the ragged hem of his jeans. One theme unified Storybrooke in her abbreviated analysis: Rum had not exaggerated in his talks with David; the town was sorely lacking young, strong, able-bodied people. A group such as hers was an unimaginable gift. Belle whispered as much to David, who nodded gravely.

The sheriff’s station bore the scars of a world ending with hastily repaired doors and windows broken like a brawler’s teeth. The roof had burned at one point; new shingles were haphazardly tacked over the scorched ones. Dad yanked open the door and they filed in. The main office of a small town police station was simplicity itself: two holding cells, a desk for the deputy, and the sheriff’s office behind a glass partition. Through cracked glass, Belle saw Rum sitting at the sheriff’s desk bent over a heap of books. Regina cut an imposing figure, leather-clad and snarling. She pinned the book Rum read from with a long fingernail, red lips moving over sharp words.  Belle glimpsed Henry in the corner and felt a surge of kindred affection.  He sat with his nose buried in a book, legs swinging as he read. Phil rapped his knuckles on the glass wall. The office door opened to reveal Graham’s lanky form, dark eyes fathomless.

“Mr. Mayor,” David said, shouldering the door open.

“Ah, Mr. Nolan and company, do come in. And please, no need to stand on ceremony. ‘Gold’ is sufficient,” Rum said, hands braced on the table as he rose. The tie and pocket square were red today. He winked at her. Their group shuffled into the tiny office, Henry and Graham crowded to the unoccupied corners behind Regina and Rum.

“Hello, Graham. We met briefly. I’m Belle,” she said, offering her hand. Graham looked from her hand to her face with a stray dog’s wariness.

“Hello,” he said in a deep, faintly accented voice, but made no move to shake her hand.

“You,” Regina said, and the word emerged jagged with irritation. Dark eyes burned into Belle’s, though she wisely bit back any invective at the sight of David, Dad, Phil and Mei-Xing. Not to mention Rum standing beside her.

“Making friends already, Belle?” Emma whispered and Belle nudged her shoulder in gentle reproof. Regina folded her arms over her chest, the gap in her leather jacket revealing the handgun snug in its shoulder holster. Not taking her eyes off Belle and her group, Regina said: “Graham, take Henry home. Now.” The boy, book tucked into his backpack, bounced on his toes.

“Oh Mom, can’t I stay? I wanted to see if the samurai lady would show me--”

“No, honey. Do as I say or there will be consequences,” Regina said. Graham obeyed without question, and Belle who was watching their byplay intensely, could find no hint of fear in Henry’s manner with the young man.

“Mr. Nolan, may I introduce my sheriff, Regina Mills. Regina, these are--”

“Your valiant rescuers, I know. What do you want?” Regina demanded of David.

“We’re here for assignments, Regina. Like I said this morning, we’ll earn our keep here,” Belle said calmly.

“You met her this morning?” Snow asked.

“Yes, the sheriff stopped by the shop this morning when Belle and I were . . . unfit to entertain visitors. Now, to business,” Rum said, glaring sidelong at Regina, before gesturing to the hard plastic chairs lining the far wall.

“Take a seat, if you wish.” They shuffled into more comfortable positions, Emma and Phil claiming two of the chairs. Belle drummed her fingers on the butt of her pistol, unaccountably nervous, both at Regina’s piercing staring and the prospect of her family being separated, however innocently. Rum gave her a slight nod, but he wore the professional’s face now, a leader. He sat, frowning at the ledger.  

“After talking with Regina and my own observations of your skills, we have found assignments that will suit our needs, and your talents. Mr. Nolan, Mr. French, we would like you to join Anton in our agricultural pursuits; you can find him at the cannery at this time of the morning.  Miss Fa, Mrs. Nolan, we would like you two to join Kathryn on the wall. When you leave here, first visit Marco, his is the carpenter’s shop on Main Street. He has several bows available and in your spare time I’d like to see if you could train some of our younger ones to shoot safely or use a knife. Mr. Cavalier, report to Mr. Tillman, his garage is just down the street. I’m sure he’ll have plenty to keep you busy.”

Belle glanced at each of them as their assignment was read. Rum had done his level best to keep them together, and also suit Storybrooke’s needs. Patrol wound be ideal for Snow, she was nearly peerless with her bow. Likewise, Phil would be quite happy neck deep in oil and metal. Rum pinned a squirming Emma in place with his gaze, folding his hands.

“Miss Nolan, I would ask you what you would like to do. Here, girls your age work the same as adults. Belle tells me you are an excellent scavenger, but our scouting parties are our own seasoned shooters. And your parents would no doubt object to you being sent out among strangers.” Doubtless, Belle agreed. Snow’s eyes had flown wide and terrified as Rum spoke.

“That leaves us with two options: Regina suggested you help Granny at the diner, I suggested you act as Belle’s assistant.”

“And what will I be doing?” Belle asked. A smile danced in Rum’s eyes, that familiar sharp playfulness she loved.

“Librarian, of course.”

“You won’t be organizing the classics, dear. Let’s be clear,” Regina interrupted.

“I was getting to that,” Rum said with a hint of sharpness, enough to make Regina shift uncomfortably.

“It’s a . . . research position. I’d like you to research any useful information.  How to refine crude oil, the best process for sterilizing instruments, edible plants, et cetera.” Belle bit back a beaming smile. Not only would she be swimming in _books_ , but she’d actually be helping Storybrooke, Rum and her family. She tamped down her excitement at the prospect and said: “I’d be glad to help, Mr. Gold.”

“And I’ll help Belle,” Emma piped up. Rum tossed Belle a key, which she caught neatly.

“Have at it,” he said with his curling smile.

 

All in all, their first week in Storybrooke went smoothly. On second thought, Belle mused, ‘smooth’ was a relative term. The scale of problems differed. On the road, a bad day consisted of a gruesome, horrible death. Here, a bad day was a confrontation with Regina—a close second, Belle thought dryly. By Belle’s estimation, the woman was suspicious, petty, and suffering from the worst martyr complex she had ever witnessed. She never said ‘hussy’ again, for which Belle was grateful. She didn’t want to have to explain to Rum why his sheriff’s perfect teeth were missing.

The library was a bloody mess, and even with Emma’s help it took three days just to clear the debris from the doorway to get inside. A forlorn stack of books near the circulation desk had borne the marks of neglect: all the books were too damaged by water to be of use. Belle stroked the warped covers, colorful children’s books full of fairy tales. In any disaster, it was the children who suffered. How many people had young Henry seen die? Belle set the books aside. She would transcribe the stories into a journal. Every child needed stories to fuel their dreams.

A rap on the door roused Belle from her contemplation. She rose, dusting off the knees of her jeans. Regina stood with her arms folded over her chest. She shouldered the door open wider and stepped into the small area Belle and Emma cleared. Graham trailed in after her, Regina’s lean, dark shadow.

“Please come in,” Belle said belatedly, rolling her eyes. To Graham she said, “Good to see you again.” His gaze skittered away from hers and he nodded. Rum had nailed it when he named Graham Regina’s pet, Belle thought with a pang.    

“Hard at work, I see,” Regina drawled, nodding toward the book she held.

“If I remember correctly, the undead were formerly filed under ‘fiction.’ Now they are a reality. I would suggest not making the same mistake twice,” Belle said tartly.

“Where is Emma?” Graham asked. Belle smiled at him, conjuring the mental image of offering a wary dog your hand to sniff.

“She went to bring her mother lunch on the wall. Snow says she’s seen more walker activity in the past few days.”

“A few stragglers, nothing we can’t handle,” Regina said, her low voice brisk and sharp. Belle made a mental note to ask Rum about the integrity of the walls. Could they withstand, let’s say, a _herd_ of walkers?

“Of course,” Belle said, boosting herself up on the counter of the circulation desk.

“Is there something I can help you with, Sheriff?”

“Have you gleaned anything useful in your time here, Miss French? No one in Storybrooke can remain here without being useful.” She slid off the counter and stared up at Regina.

“And you’re the judge of usefulness, are you? Why are you so eager to kick me out? I apologize if I offended you when we first met, but _your_ manners were less than--” Belle broke off, sweeping her hand in curt gesture.

“You know what, forget it, water under the bridge. I want what’s best for my family, just like you do.” Despite her conciliatory tone, Regina’s perfect eyebrows remained knitted together with her mouth a flat, disapproving line.

“You have no idea what is best for my family. Miss French, I think you’re a pretty face who earned her meal ticket by--” Belle’s fists balled at her sides.

“You really don’t want to finish that sentence, Sheriff,” she said softly. Regina bit off the last phrase and settled for a glare.

“If you want proof of my _usefulness_ , Regina? I have three notebooks full of useful information: soil composition for the crops Anton wants to grow, techniques for desalinization and water purification, and every book on cellular biology I could find to figure out what causes _this_ ,” Belle said, sweeping a hand to encompass the entire situation. She shoved a battered composition notebook into Regina’s hands.

“Give me time and I’ll find more. There’s some I need to translate, or copy from microfiche.” Regina had the grace to look abashed as she flipped through the pages. 

“Very well, Miss French. I stand corrected.”

“Thank you. Now as much as I love these little chats, I’d like to get back to work,” Belle bit out the words with as much patience as she could muster.

“Your dedication is admirable, but I also came to tell you Gold is leaving town. Any further questions will be directed to me, until he returns,” Regina said, throwing the words over her shoulder as she stepped outside.

“Wait, _what_?” Belle said, forced to trot after the snide bitch.

“What do you mean Gold is leaving town?” she said, keeping pace with Regina’s long strides. Regina briskly turned up the collar of her jacket against the frigid wind. Belle folded her arms over her chest to keep from shivering.

“One of the patrollers saw lights and heard an engine before curfew lifted this morning. Figured it might be a group trying to join up. But by morning they were gone. Our scavengers are going to check it out.” Regina’s dark eyes rested heavily on Belle and she smothered any hint of reaction. The only reason he’d left before was the hope of finding Bae. Surely he didn’t leave Storybrooke in Regina’s hands at any hint of a young male traveling with any wayward group. A vital piece of data was missing.

“Lovely talking to you, as always Regina,” Belle said, loping toward Rum’s shop. The front room was empty, the workroom likewise. A faint thump overhead betrayed Rum’s presence in the bedroom where they’d spent hours loving each other over the past week. She tried to swallow the burning anger in her throat, she did, but she was bloody well keyed up after Regina’s offhand words. She poked her head through the trap door to find Rum with his back to her, clad in jeans and leather. Her stomach plummeted to her toes.

“Tell me you’re not planning on leaving Storybrooke without me,” she said with as much calm as she could muster. Rum started violently, his hand on his gun. His eyes narrowed upon seeing her perched on the stairs.

“Christ, Belle. You startled me, love.”

“Did you hear something, Rum? About Bae?” Belle asked more gently, climbing the rest of the way up. Rum folded his hands over the handle of his cane.

“Regina’s lackey Sidney Glass saw a van this morning. A van with the words ‘Sisters of Saint Melissa’ on the side.”

“The nuns,” Belle whispered, excitement beginning to overtake her lingering anger. This was Rum’s first solid proof of Bailey in God knew how long. Rum nodded, eyes shining.

“Maybe.  Maybe I can find him, Belle. Finally.” She embraced him quickly, feeling the subtle tremor racing through him. Joy or fear or both. A thought occurred to Belle.

“Rum, have you considered that maybe Sidney is trying to get a rise out of you? Or maybe Regina is sending you off on a wild goose chase?” His smile was tender, his rough hand cupping her cheek.

“I’ve thought of it, but Belle, no one knows about Mille, the nuns, or even Bae. None but you. Unless you’ve maybe told your family, then--” She pressed a kiss to his palm, a rush of emotion flooding her chest.

“I haven’t told anyone,” Belle said, choked. The depth of his trust and devotion stunned her.

“I’m going with you,” she said. Rum heaved a shaky sigh. He arched a brow at her.

“I suppose there’s no way to convince you that I want you here safe? That I need someone I trust to keep Regina from causing trouble? That your family would worry for you?”

“Nope,” Belle said, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis, “I’m going with you. And I know for a fact at least half of my family is already at the gate, and the other half will be there in a millisecond if they hear I’m going. They chased us halfway across Maine, Rum. We always find each other.” He rolled his eyes expressively, shoving his other pistol in its hip holster with a trifle more force than necessary.

“Bloody hell. Let’s go then. There is one small bit of business we have to attend to.” Belle narrowed her eyes at him.

“Henry. Rum, must you? Taking her son hostage might be making her more likely to try something drastic. If only to free him from your evil clutches.”

“Evil clutches? The lad spends his time reading comic books and drinking chocolate milk. Hardly a prison sentence,” he said, toying the strap of his holster. 

“Regardless, I think you should at least consider--” Belle began.

“Kathryn Arlind and her lover Fred care for Henry while I am away. His life has never been in jeopardy. But Bae . . .” Rum broke off, a muscle firing in his jaw. The candlelight caught in his eyes and made them blaze. He cupped Belle’s chin in his palm.

“ _My_ son’s life has been in jeopardy every hour of every day for three _years_. I am going to get him _back_. Belle, I must.” The pleading edge of harshly rasped words snagged at her heart.

“Oh love, I know. We’ll talk about Henry later, yeah?” she asked. He laid a hand over his heart.

“You have my word,” he said.

 


	8. Breakage

Part 8: Breakage

 

The Chevy was an upgrade from David’s Honda. The nine of them each had a space to sit—provided the men were fine with packing in the truck bed like sardines. Upon leaving Storybrooke, Kathryn insisted on at least one of Gold’s people accompanying them. Ruby Lucas drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, vibrating with coiled energy.  Belle glanced at Mei-Xing with an arched brow; a slight smile quirked Mei-Xing mouth. If Mei-Xing vouched for the other woman’s accuracy with that pistol of hers, Belle wasn’t going to argue. Crammed between Belle and the passenger door, Rum scowled at the buckled asphalt. There were cracks in his calm façade; she could see it in his white knuckled grip on his cane, the laser-hot focus of his gaze on the next bend. Leaving Storybrooke had bled away the euphoria of possibility, she supposed. Now there was only the fear. The weather at least, was cooperating; the sun shone bright and strong.

“Are you sure, Miss Lucas?” The tone was sharp, succinct. Ruby nodded.

“Pretty sure, Mr. Gold. Sidney said they were heading in this direction, and--” Ruby broke off, frowning through the cracked windshield. She eased the truck onto the shoulder and swung down from the cab. From what Rum told her, Ruby was a born hunter.

“Hang on a sec,” she said. David jumped from the bed to cover her, winking at Belle as he passed. Ruby knelt, tracing the tire tracks with one finger. Leaning out the passenger door, Rum said: “What do you see?”

“Tire tracks. Must have bunked here for the night.”

“What do you think frightened them off?” Mei-Xing asked. David pointed.

“What else?” he said. Belle followed his pointing finger to find a pair of walkers pawing at them from beyond a barbed wire fence. None in the truck made a move to end them. Experience said that if they were not a direct threat, it was at best unwise to waste ammo and energy. At worst, it was simple stupidity to endanger yourself. Belle squinted at the walkers, a male and female, both in their mid-thirties when they died. No Bae, thank God.

“They’ve been on the road for a while. Why would only a couple walkers scare them off?” Belle asked no one in particular.

“Which way did they go?” Rum asked.

“East on that dirt road, judging by the tracks.” Ruby stood, dusting off her palms on her jeans. A gargling hiss warned them; Ruby swiveled as the walker staggered across the asphalt. She drew a bowie knife from her belt and swung true. The walker collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Let’s move,” David said, climbing back into the truck bed beside Snow. Ruby joined them in the idling cab, yanking the car into gear. Belle cut a glance at Rum out of the corner of her eye. Close. So close now.

 

Belle was now accustomed to the surreal nature of their world. Hunting for a lost child on a beautiful day, armed to the teeth. For a brief moment, Belle enjoyed being surrounded by her family and Rum. Mei-Xing and Ruby were deep in conversation, shared experiences escaping Boston from what it sounded like. Ruby had been on the same campus as Belle, Phil and Mei-Xing.

“Stop the car!” Rum shouted suddenly. Ruby slammed on the brakes, Belle braced her hands on the dash; she heard muttered curses as the other occupants in back made similar adjustments. Belle peered through the cloud of dust at what Rum had shouted for.

“What--” she began. Belle’s stomach dropped to her toes; a white van was smashed into a tree.  Rum yanked open the door and leapt out while the truck was slammed to a stop.

“Shit!” Ruby said, fumbling with the gear shift. Belle lunged after Rum’s limping form, her hand already pulling her gun from its holster.

“Rum, wait for the others,” she said, trotting at his heels.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he growled.

Belle exhaled a breath through her nostrils, focusing instead on covering him. He stabbed the end of his cane through a broken window, scattering the last tinkling shards of glass. He waited, for a breathless moment, for a lunging walker. When none came, he heaved his torso through the window. The driver—Christ, she looked barely sixteen!—was dead, a low-hanging limb driven through the skull. A walker was pinned by the van to the tree, hissing as broken fingernails scrabbled impotently on the buckled hood. Belle peered up in the tree. Maybe some of them had hid there . . . This could end badly. She hesitated to even consider the possibility, shuddering at the thought of Rum’s pain. But _if_ it ended badly . . . Rum’s voice distracted her.

“Gone,” he said, in a hollow tone. Belle opened her mouth to offer comfort, but the group had caught up. Mei-Xing, Ruby and David jogged toward them, Dad driving the rolling Chevy. Rum’s chest was heaving, eyes panning wildly around. She saw the impulse to shout for Bae rise in him, and said, “They probably were looking for shelter. Let’s go this way.” Rum’s dark gaze fixed on her, flashing with an emotion somewhere between adoration, gratitude and desperation.

“Ruby?” he asked, short and sharp. The girl was already circling the van, shifting through unkempt weeds for shell casings. The ground was soft from the recent rain, mud drying in tacky ridges around the tire tracks. Belle knelt and traced the shape of a shoe print.

“They headed north, maybe seven or eight of them. Armed and still kicking,” Ruby said.

Without a word, they piled into the Chevy and moved out. Belle’s heart was pounding, caught between looking for clues and watching Rum. He was actively trembling now, eyes bleak and shadowed. Dad drove, leaving Ruby to trot alongside, picking out clues. Bullet casings and the walkers they’d put down littered the road like discarded trash, a couple bearing the marks of hand-to-hand combat. Still kicking, maybe eight hours ago. Just a little farther.

Belle’s stomach lurched when she saw the first child. A boy in his early teens maybe, blond and handsome, with his entrails draped over his lap like a bloody apron. Rum . . . Rum wore a stranger’s face. Not the crime lord, lover, gentleman, or father. A man ablaze with rage, deep and wide enough to cover the fear years in the making.

From the truck bed, Snow fired an arrow, dispatching the walker chewing on what looked like the boy’s tibia. Ruby plucked the arrow from the walker’s sunken temple, beautiful face flat and grim.

“Around this bend, maybe we can get a better look,” Ruby said, gesturing with the gory arrow.  They drove past a brush-choked bend in the road. A ramshackle barn loomed ahead; walker and human bodies littered the path.

“Bloody hell,” Dad muttered beside Belle.

Rum lunged from the truck, dragging Belle with him. The mud gave his cane hell; she could see how unsteady his long strides were. Before, he’d always stepped with care; he was beyond caring now.

“Gold, wait up!” Ruby said, hopping over the dead walker to catch up. A glance over her shoulder found her family pouring from the Chevy, grouping in formation with David on point. Belle stumbled a little on the uneven ruts, her arm nearly yanked from its socket as Rum marched, fixed on the barn. 

“Rum, you’re hurting me,” she said, breath huffing out between syllables. Rum halted suddenly, looking back at her with an unnamable expression. He pecked a kiss on the back of her hand and continued on at a slightly slower pace. Ruby caught up, loping around the corner of the barn with her gun drawn; David and Snow peeled off to cover her, while the rest took up positions at the other corner. Belle drew her gun, ready to cover Rum. He grasped the barn’s door and yanked—it didn’t budge. Rum snarled, a low inhuman sound of pure frustration; he braced his weight and _pulled_.

“Locked. Locked from the _inside_ ,” Belle murmured. Hope caught like brushfire in his eyes.          

“Hello! Hello? Is anyone alive in there?” Belle pitched her voice at mid-volume, not wanting to alert any nearby walkers. A soft, quavering voice answered them. Female and young, too young.

“Who . . . who’s there?”

“We’re here to help. We’re a group from Storybrooke. You were with the nuns?” Belle asked, peering through crack in the wood to see the narrow sliver of a brown eye set in a darkly complected face.

“Yeah. There’s only us now,” she said.

“Open the door, sweetheart. We can take you somewhere safe.”

“I--I’ll get Miss Blue.”

Belle pressed her ear to the rough, grey wood, hearing the faint murmur of conversation, then the grunt and scrape of a blockade being moved. Soon the door cracked open to reveal a black girl, maybe ten, and a woman maybe close to Regina’s age, dressed in a ragged blue habit and holding a grimy crowbar.

“Miss Blue? I’m Belle and--”

“Did you have a boy travelling with you named Bailey? My height, black hair, brown eyes? _Did you_?” Rum demanded, thankfully stopping short of grabbing a handful of the woman’s shirt and shaking her. The woman seemed to crumple into herself.

“Y—Yes he was with us. We crashed. We were s--separated--”

“Where?” he broke in. Miss Blue babbled on, tears leaking from her eyes.

“—I think some of the boys ran for safety--”

“ _Where_?” he said, blazing.

“That way, I think,” Miss Blue and Ruby said in unison, pointing through a thicket to a battered shed.

Rum shoved past Miss Blue and limped in the direction they indicated, as quickly as he was able. Emma, Mei-Xing, and Dad scuttled after her and Rum through the sun-dappled shade. Three walkers staggered from the trees, Rum killed one with Belle’s chipped knife with savage ease, Belle dispatched the other two. The shed’s door was cracked, creaking in the light breeze. Rum stopped, leaning heavily on his cane as he caught his breath.

“Bailey? Bae? Where are you, son?” Rum said, mid-volume. No answer.

“ _Bae_! Come out now, I’ve found you,” he said, louder, a soft catch in his voice. No answer. Belle could scarcely hear anything over the pounding of her own heart. A soft scuffle, the faint creak of wood. Belle shifted her grip on her gun between both hands, holding her breath.

“Bae?” Rum’s voice was a whisper now, a prayer. The door swung open . . .  
and a teenage boy emerged. Green-glazed eyes glared at them beneath a shock of red hair, dried blood wreathing its mouth and seeping from the bite at its neck. Rum fired, putting down the walker and stepping over its body to search the shed.

“Not here. He’s not here,” Rum said, raking a hand through his hair.

“This way. More tracks,” Mei-Xing said, nodding toward the flattened grass and mud. The five of them emerged into a clearing in formation. Belle firmed her grip at the sight of maybe two dozen walkers clustered around the base of a tree. Was that--?

_“Bailey!”_ Rum shouted. The boy clung to a limb, transfixed by the pawing walkers beneath him. Belle took aim, but the boy’s scrabbling legs swayed in the way. She didn’t want to risk hitting him. He looked up at the shout. His lips moved, forming a word. The limb snapped—and Rum snapped with it. He broke away from them, his gun hot and keen; Rum moved faster than any man with a cane had a right to, swinging over the wood fence barring his path. Belle’s feet moved to follow, eyes glued to the flash of his black jacket. Mei-Xing hauled her back.

“There’re too many, Belle. Look!” she said, nodding toward the tree line, where walkers staggered in clusters of two and three.

“I won’t leave him!” Belle snapped, shaking free and swinging over the fence, landing hard on the soggy ground, gun in one hand and knife in the other.

“Belle! Wait!” Dad said. Where was Rum? Over the hungry gargling of the walkers, Belle heard a garbled litany of curses and Bailey’s name. Fuck, fuck she couldn’t see him through the tangle of rotted bodies!

“Belle! Come back!” Emma’s voice cracked on the last syllable, but Belle couldn’t waste the precious seconds to turn back, to shout. Not with Rum surrounded by walkers, not with the press of them closing in on her, not with cold fear stopping up her throat. She turned left, fired; congealed blood sprayed her face. She jumped forward, stabbed up under the jaw.

A strong grey hand grasped her arm; Belle pressed the barrel to its temple and fired. Bracing herself on one freshly dead, she kicked out with both legs, clearing enough space to dispatch the three in her path.  The rapport of Rum’s gun was reassuring—still alive, still fighting. Belle dispatched a female walker, thrusting her knife through one opaque eye. Yanking the blade free, she stumbled, tripped over a body. A walker lunged, only to be stopped by the keen edge of Mei-Xing’s sword, cutting off the head cleanly. Behind Mei-Xing, Dad was putting the last down with his machete. Belle scrambled to her feet, panting. Where was--?

The breath whooshed out of her. Rum was on his knees, rocking Bailey in his lap, his voice low and broken. Oh God. Please no . . .  Picking her way over the fallen walkers, his words flowed over her.

“Everything’s going to be fine, son. We’re together now. I’ll never leave you again, I swear,” he said, grimy fingers combing black hair from Bae’s brow. Over Rum’s shoulder, Belle saw the bite, ragged and gushing blood on the side of Bailey’s neck. She closed her eyes against the horrible rush of pain beneath her breastbone. Already she could see the fever blazing through Bailey, sweat pooling at the base of his throat, soaking the ragged jersey he wore. An abstract, morbid thought wondered which would kill him first: the blood loss or the fever. She could only imagine Rum’s face, bleak and lost. Bailey didn’t notice her standing behind them; his focus was on his father. He braided his fingers with Rum’s, his body wracked by chills. So pale, pain blazing in those familiar brown eyes . . . 

“It hurts. Papa, I’m sorry. I wasn’t strong enough to--” Bae’s cracking, adolescent voice said, the words thick with choking blood. It bubbled up to trickle from the corner of his mouth. Rum clutched him tighter.

Belle tore her eyes away from the pair, watching the walkers approach. They needed to get back to the truck and get out. Now.

“Shh, never mind that, son. You’re so brave, so brave Bae. It’s all right.” A quivering undercurrent ran beneath Rum’s harsh Scottish tone. Belle couldn’t imagine the pain of watching her hope die by inches while having to be strong for them.

“Belle,” Mei-Xing said, pointing with her sword. The walkers weren’t in pairs any longer, but clusters of five, six. _Fucking hell_.

“Papa . . . I’m sorry, Papa. I missed you. I love you,” Bae said, eyelids fluttering. Rum’s exhaled breath emerged in a keen. 

“I love you too. Just hang on, now. Please,” A hideous gurgle of blood choked in Bae’s throat, a deep shudder wracking him.

“ _Bae_! Bae, listen to me, son. Just--” Rum’s voice was small, ineffectual as Bae took one last, wheezing, torturous breath then fell still. Belle had seen death in all its forms, and Bae’s tore her heart. His brown eyes yawned empty. So young. So young and Rum loved him so much.

Belle laid a hand on Rum’s shoulder. Oh God, she couldn’t . . . she _couldn’t_ end him. She’d rather be torn to pieces than kill Rum’s son. There was no _time_. Bae needed to be put down; there was time for grief later—if they lived.

“Rum, I’m sorry. We have to go,” she said, nudging his shoulder. There was a long, nerve-shredding silence. When Rum spoke, it was in that same hollow croak.    

“Bae wasn’t supposed to die.” Broken fragments of apologies and endearments flew to her lips, trying to coax him back from that yawning edge.

A spate of gunfire interrupted them, and Belle flinched. Her fingers tightened around her gun. There was no comfort to be found in its cold weight. A dozen yards away, Mei-Xing and Dad hacked at the approaching walkers.

“No time. Come on, Rum.”

Belle threaded her fingers through Rum’s unresponsive ones, resolve firming. She’d _drag_ him back to Storybrooke if she had to. They’d find a way through this. Together. 

“Belle! We need to go!” Dad’s voice rang out. She tugged on Rum’s arm.

“Come on, Rum.” He stood rooted in place, drawn inexorably to the body on the ground. Behind them, the rapport of Dad’s shotgun rang out, a counterpoint to David’s M16 and small arms. Fuck, was there a fucking _herd_ coming for them? Rum shook off her grip and knelt, grabbing Bailey’s cold hand and kneading it.

“I won’t leave him,” he said. Belle grasped a handful of his jacket.

“We have to--” A hard shove found her on her arse, blinking at him. Heart in her throat, she swallowed hard, seeing madness written in his snarling face.

“ _I won’t leave him!_ Not again. Not ever.”

And Belle wouldn’t leave Rum. Not again, not ever.

“We have to--” Rum’s face twisted into a horrible expression of disgust, anger and pain. Belle scrambled to her feet.

“I know what has to be done. He’s my son.” Rum stood, laboriously without his cane, and found his gun. Belle took a half step back, feeling lost. Sucking in a deep breath, Rum leveled it at Bailey and fired.

For a moment, it seemed the only sound in the world was that gunshot.

A decayed female walker crept past Mei-Xing, the stub of its arm reaching for Belle. She put it down with one clean shot. Through a veil of gunsmoke, she saw two, three more. Three shots, three more down. She had maybe two more rounds left in her clip, plus whatever Rum had, but ammo wasn’t the problem. There were too fucking many!

“Dad! I need help over here!” she shouted, cupping her hand to her mouth. He and Mei-Xing fell back.

“We can’t leave him,” Belle said, almost begging. She swiped the single tear from her cheek. Dad looked from Belle to Rum, who stood staring at Bae and the hole in the center of his forehead. Dad nodded once, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder. He knelt beside Gold, his voice gentle.

“Gold, let’s go. I’ll get your boy.” Rum nodded as Dad gently picked up the body. Walkers were surrounding them now, lurching on broken limbs. If not a herd, then damn close. The fear crept up her throat, almost strangling.

“What’s going on up there? We have to go _now_!” Phil’s voice reached them, harsh and strident. A low growl of an engine and the Chevy surged up the rise, low-hanging branches scraping against the sides as it burst into the clearing. Rum and Belle trailed after Dad, Emma and Snow picking off the few walkers who got uncomfortably close. Miss Blue and the girl were huddled between David and Phil in the bed of the Chevy. Everyone present and in one piece, Belle saw with dim relief. At the sight of Dad’s burden, Miss Blue screamed, quickly smothered in the girl’s hair. The two wept and clung to one another. Belle climbed up after Rum, who drew Bae’s body into his lap.

“Ruby, can we make it out?” David shouted through the open back window. Walkers. _Everywhere_. Dozens, staggering toward their noise.

“We have to!” Ruby replied, whipping the truck in reverse. David passed out loops of nylon rope tied to the truck bed. They’d have to move fast, and Belle was grateful for the makeshift seatbelt. She worked one around Rum and Bae both. In his current state, Belle thought with hot, gritty eyes, Rum might dive into a swarm of walkers if the body fell out.

“None of you better drop your fucking weapons! We need every round to get back alive!” Phil shouted. Ruby gunned the engine, and Belle’s focus narrowed again: to staying in the truck, to holding onto her gun, and on her next breath. Right then, that’s all she had.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	9. What Doesn't Kill You

Part 9: What Doesn’t Kill You

 

David slammed his hand on the rear of the Chevy’s cab. Belle ejected her magazine and shakily traded it for the full one Emma threaded through the narrow window. Miss Blue and the girl were crammed in the cab with Ruby, feverishly shoving rounds into the magazines. Slow, careful breaths kept the terror at bay. They were surrounded by a pawing mass of rotting faces and grey hands.

“Turn back, Ruby! It’s a lost cause,” David said, despair a grim stamp on his face. US-1 westbound was blocked by more walkers than Belle had ever seen. A glance around the group found mirroring the grim, numb sort of terror she felt. All save for Rum’s face. He stared, blankly, lifelessly at Bailey. Half a walker himself with those dead eyes.

“I can still make it through! Just give me a path!” Ruby’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

“We’ll run out of ammo before we even make a dent!” Phil barked, shoving shells into his shotgun. A chorus of hungry hisses, gargles and moans reached them, a forest of grabbing limbs and dead lolling eyes. Sweat stung Belle’s eyes; she shoved at the hair falling loose from its tie.

“We have no choice. I’ll draw them away. You can run for Storybrooke,” Mei-Xing said, already swinging free of her safety rope. Snow grabbed her forearm.

“Don’t be stupid. That’s suicide, and useless besides,” she said, shoving Mei-Xing back into the loop of rope.

Ruby cursed, swinging the Chevy around and gunning it down an exit ramp. The scorched remains of an overturned bus blocked the exit. Belle grit her teeth, clutching the rail as Ruby screeched to a stop and whipped the truck around.

“Hang on!” Ruby shouted, revving the engine. Belle’s stomach lurched as the wind whistled in her ears and the truck executed several dizzying swerves to avoid clusters of walkers. The truck slowed at a relatively clear stretch of road. Belle rose to her feet. After a moment of instinctive, gut-clenching terror at the sight of so many walkers, she could think. The main body of the herd seemed to be behind them, hemmed in by the dense forest and deep ditches on either side of the highway. The road created a natural funnel east toward the coast. Toward Storybrooke. 

 “We can’t abandon the truck. We’ll be meat on foot,” Dad said, leaning closer to Belle.

“We’re meat if we stay here,” Phil pointed out.

“Stroybrooke is that way. We have to warn the town. Gold, can the walls hold them?” Belle asked. He didn’t so much as twitch. Fear and pain so deep it nearly crippled her rose up. She wanted to hit him, beg him to look at her, love her, live for her.

“Rum. Rum?” she said, her hand fluttering ineffectually near his shoulder. No answer. A short, charged silence, broken only the growling engine and the cacophony of the walkers.

“Storybrooke is our best shot,” David said, squeezing off a few rounds at the nearing herd. Belle released the magazine and checked her ammo before tamping it back in place and clicking the hammer back. Ten rounds left, and a dwindling box of ammo. David raked a shaking hand through his hair, then cocked the M16.

“Ok, everyone take a section within your arm’s width. We don’t want to be wasting ammo shooting at the same walker. Be conservative. Shoot straight.”

The Chevy lurched forward, swerving and fishtailing around clusters of walkers. There was a thud of impact at the rear bumper, then the passenger door; Belle glimpsed a smear of gore as Ruby ran over a couple others. Blindly, Belle fisted her hand in Rum’s jacket, tucking them lower. The tires screeched as Ruby slammed on the brakes and Belle threw out her arm, barely stopping herself from breaking her face on the cab. A stifled grunt escaped her as Rum and Dad slammed into her back, the latter cursing fluently. Rum barely flinched.

“Any time, guys!” Ruby snapped, turning the car broadside for easier firing. Belle scrambled to a kneeling position and picked out one of the walkers blocking the road. Belle, David and Dad began firing in short, controlled bursts.  With Belle’s ears ringing and head buzzing, she wished for her foam ear plugs. A harsh scream pierced the ringing fuzz. Belle turned to find a walker with a handful of Snow’s hair, four more reaching over the rail.

“Mom!” Emma screamed from the cab.

Snow scrabbled for purchase, eyes wide with terror. David plunged his knife into the walker that had Snow, a soft cry leaving her as a hank of hair was torn free. Mei-Xing fumbled with her tangled sheath, at last freeing her sword. A long double-handed slash cut down the three at the truck, spraying red-black blood and bits of grey flesh. Cursing in Chinese, she swung down from the Chevy into the fray.

“Mei-Xing!” Belle’s scream was shrill. Though Belle’s heart was in her throat, a detached part of her brain appreciated the supple grace of Mei-Xing’s snarling, bloody dance. One slash cleaved the head from one, a shift of weight plunged the blade through the chest to immobilize two others. At the scent of fresh meat, the walkers began to lurch toward Mei-Xing. Belle braced her elbows on the rail.

“Bloody, stubborn, idiot woman!” she muttered. The anger gave her focus and she put down five walkers in rapid succession. A window opened on the road and Ruby went for it, slowing for half a heartbeat—time enough for David to haul Mei-Xing up into the truck bed.

“Go!” David bellowed.

 

ZZZ

 

Moe had never been happier to see a wooden sign. Fumes, empty casings and instinct were all they had left. Three more times they’d been jammed up, Mei-Xing drew the walkers away, then the group picked them off. The poor girl was hunched over, panting and blood-splattered, favoring her right leg. She’d wrenched her knee badly jumping out of the truck last time. Moe’s gaze skittered over the crumpled husk of Gold still holding his dead son to rest on Belle: her face smeared with blood and looking like the wrath of the gods, his fierce girl. 

Ruby flashed the lights of the truck, signaling the watch they were friends as she wove through the staggered fortifications of stripped cars and crude stakes. Clouds had rolled in through the hellish afternoon, and Moe could smell the tang of rain and lightning in the air. He glanced over his shoulder down the road. They had maybe half a mile on the herd. God help them if the walls didn’t hold.

Ruby leaned out the driver’s window and shouted: “Kathryn! Open up!” Moe scanned the wall and couldn’t see the gritty blond or her lanky beau Fred. Sidney was up there, and young, hawk-eyed Graham, along with two others Moe knew by face but not name. None of them moved to open the gate, or lower their weapons.

“There’s a herd headed this way, more than any I’ve ever seen. Let us in!” A note of hysteria entered Ruby’s voice.

“Is Gold with you?” Sidney asked, squinting down the barrel of his Winchester. Moe glanced at Gold. He’d loosened his grip on the body, now he stared at the wall with a look of bland attention, like watching a traffic light.

“Yes,” David said, standing, “He’s . . . injured. Let us in. Dr. Whale needs to look at him.”

“Let’s see him,” Sidney said, ignoring David. All the group’s voices rose in a tangle, barking, demanding for a reprieve.

“Do you realize what you’re doing?”

“We’re not opening the fucking door.”

“Where’s Granny? Go get her, tell her I’m home!”

“Shut up!”

“How could you be so heartless?”

“ _Where is Gold?”_

Moe reached for Belle whose terror was beginning to show, then looked back at the highway. The first cluster of walkers was staggering toward them. Bloody fucking _hell_. They were getting closer. Moe’s patience snapped with an audible noise. He lunged and grabbed Gold by the scruff of his jacket.

“Dad, don’t!”

“Listen here, Gold. You need to snap the fuck out of it. Get your arse up and tell these wankers you’re still alive. Otherwise, you, me, and more importantly, _Belle_ will be in danger. Got it?” Those dark eyes, blurred and dark as an abyss focused and sharpened. His lips soundlessly formed Belle’s name. The spark struck, and caught.

“Belle,” he said, scrambling to his feet, cane wobbling on the corrugated floor. The man who stood was the same cold, barely-tamed monster that had bartered for their place in Storybrooke. Moe whispered a prayer of thanks to whatever god was listening. Maybe they’d get out of this alive.

 

ZZZ

 

“Mr. Glass. Open the gate,” Rum said, calm as you please. Belle’s hands shook on her gun. The dark-skinned man on the wall flinched visibly. 

“R--Regina wanted to speak to you.” Beneath the surge of terror, Belle felt an unreasoned anger at Sidney’s puppyish devotion to Regina. She was distracted momentarily by Snow loosing an arrow at an approaching walker, catching it through the bridge of its rotted nose. Her quiver held only two arrows.

The rapport of a gun and a chorus of screams yanked her attention back to the wall. Rum’s gun smoked, Sidney sagged against the railing, clutching a bleeding shoulder.

“I said: Open. The gate. _Now_ ,” Gold said, measuring each word with layered menace.

“This isn’t necessary, Mr. Gold.” That familiar brittle tone made Belle’s teeth grind. The sheriff appeared, elegant black hair snarled by the wind. Something like a smile touched her lips. Belle’s stomach fell to her toes and with utter certainty she knew they were going to die. Regina leaned over the rail aiming her gun at Rum, mouth thin and eyes blazing.

“Where is Henry?” she snarled. Rum’s gun arm didn’t waver.

“ _Belle_.” Dad barked, gesturing. She turned and clenched her jaw to contain a sound. The herd, God, they were everywhere! Maybe two hundred yards. The patrollers on the wall saw them too, pacing and gripping their weapons with white-knuckled hands. 

“You know the deal, Regina. If you disobey, Henry will _die_ ,” Rum said, hard-edged and merciless. The bitch tilted her head, wearing an almost smug expression.

“You won’t be doing much of anything once that herd tears into your guts.” She was right, Belle thought. There was nothing for her to lose. Surely there were enough rounds left to escape, or all she needed was one to put Regina down . . .

“Are you so willing to risk your boy’s life?” Rum said. He had to pitch his voice louder over the moans of hungry walkers. Oh God. Mei-Xing, David and Phil jumped from the truck to try and ward off the head of the herd. The sounds of their fierce effort and bursts of gunfire formed the backdrop to the tense drama.

“Maybe we should do as he says,” Sidney said, to broad agreement on the wall.

“Shut up,” Regina said, unwavering. Her gun was pointed at Rum. If she’d move just an inch, then Belle could—out of the tail of her eye, Belle saw a dark blur on the wall. Graham emerged outside.

“Stop, Regina. They don’t deserve this,” he said, hands spread in a pacifying gesture. At that moment, Belle didn’t care for their unfolding tableau; her only concern was how Graham had slipped past the wall.

“I’m out!” David shouted.

“Me too! _What do we do_?” Phil screamed.

“How dare you,” Regina snarled, turning the full wattage of her fury at Graham. The young man held her gaze passively. There was something in his hand, and Belle felt a dizzying rush of hope. A week ago, Phil had helped automate the gate. And _Graham_ had the opener.

“Get inside, Graham. Now,” Regina said.

“Let us in,” Graham said evenly. Ablaze with rage, she made no move to obey.

Graham pressed the mechanism.

And all hell broke loose.

A hail of gunfire. Rum shoving her beneath him. Walkers. Screaming. Dad hunched over, grey. The deafening screech of the gate opening. The _gate_!

“Ruby, go!” David shouted, hauling Phil up after him. Graham? He had saved them, where was--? On the ground, blood pooling in a black-red ring behind his head.

“She shot him. That bitch killed Graham!” Emma’s shrill voice reached Belle. Nononono . . . The truck roared, wind keening, abused metal shrieking, jarring motion slamming them back into the truck bed. Brakes screeched and they were in, they were inside! Where was Reg--? Rum staggered to his knees—oh God, he was _bleeding_ —stabbing his gun at five armed men.

“Think carefully of whose side you’re on. Help those idiots,” he said, waving his gun toward those on the wall, now firing frantically at the herd. They obeyed. Belle mustered her wits, crawling to where her Dad slumped.

“Dad? Dad? Are you bit? Scratched?” she asked, shaking him. He groaned, one hand staunching the red blood at his side.

“Just shot, darling. Isn’t that enough?” he said, with a knife-thin smile. Belle pried his gummy fingers away and saw a ragged graze. Too fucking close, but he’d live.

“Belle, behind you!” Dad said. Belle swiveled, and shot the walker pawing at the truck. She breathed, aiming for the aperture of the gate where walkers began to crowd through. Three shots, three dead walkers, and a horde behind them, stumbling stupidly over the bodies of the fallen. A high, ungodly scream shred the air; a walker had dragged a defender from the wall and was—Belle closed her eyes briefly to block out the image of shredded skin and bloody entrails. She squeezed the trigger to end the poor bastard’s misery. The gun gave an impotent click.

“I’m out!” Belle said. The others poured from the Chevy, firing haphazardly at the herd.

“The gate! Close the fucking gate, you fools!” Rum shouted. Walkers poured in, drawn by the noise and the smell of hot blood. Thunder growled, the clouds opened, releasing a deluge.

“It’s jammed!” someone screamed.

“Phil, help them!” Snow said. Hefting his blood-splattered machete, he obeyed, swinging up the ladder protected by a cage of rebar and razor wire. Regina and Sidney were nowhere to be seen.

“Come on,” Rum said, grabbing Belle’s arm.  She unsheathed her knife and stabbed through the eye of one walker. It stuck in a spar of bone and she abandoned it, trotting after Rum, leaning heavily on his cane.

“This way!” Belle said, waving at her family.

“Get off the street,” he said, pointing with his gun to an abandoned clothing shop. He released Belle’s arm.

“Where are you going?” Belle demanded. Fine dark hair plastered to his face, blood trickling from a wound at his temple, he looked heart-breakingly like the man she’d met in a barn.

“We have to close the gate or we’re all dead. Perhaps Chevalier and I can make a difference.” His mouth was hot and urgent, stealing breath and soul in a brief kiss.

“Go. Go!” he said, pushing her away. Belle shook her head violently, tears blinding her.

“No. I’m not leaving you,” she said. Even essentially unarmed, being with him was preferable to never seeing him again.

“Belle!” Her father’s voice jarred her. She turned to see him hunched in the store’s doorway, staunching his wound with ineffectual fingers.

“Go, _mo chroí,_ ” Rum said, turning toward the yawning gate and more walkers than she could fathom.

Belle ran.

                                                                   

 


	10. Makes You Stronger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The herd reaches Storybrooke.

 

 

“Hold it! For Christ’s sake, _hold_ the fucking thing!” Dad gasped, grimacing as he braced his weight against the door. Belle’s arms quivered beside Mei-Xing’s, breath coming in hiccups, boots slipping on the wet linoleum. Walkers groaned outside, pounding at the door. Fuck, fuck, the door groaned with them, starting to buckle. Outside thunder roared, punctuated by screams and gunfire. The stolen police lights mounted on the wall swiveled, washing them in sweeps of red and blue. Good, the alarm had been raised at least.

“Be ready to move on the count of three!” David bit the words out, brawny arms quivering under the burden of a square chest. Would the chest be enough?

“There’s an attic, Emma’s already up. She found the supplies and ammo cache,” Snow said, her bow draped across her chest, stuffing an armload of their weapons into her empty quiver. It was Rum’s cleverness: each building in Storybrooke had weapons and supplies hidden, in case of an attack. Rum . . .

“One, two . . . three!” Dad counted. They leapt back. David heaved the chest in front of the door, but not before three walker arms snaked through the aperture, pawing with broken fingers. It wouldn’t hold long. Belle gulped down air, shivering. Trapped, and oh God Phil and _Rum_ —

“Let’s go.” Dad’s bloody fingers bit into her arm, dragging her back. She followed, straining to look through the high window for the wall.

“Up you go, Moe,” David said, helping Dad up the ladder.

A low hiss over the din was her only warning. Belle’s feet were yanked from her. Pain burst in the back of her head, the taste of blood filled her mouth. What--? Meaningless noise, a tugging at her right shin. She blinked, and saw the desiccated torso of a male walker pawing at her. A cry left Belle, slow hands reaching for her gun, her knife. Her empty gun, her lost knife. She saw Mei-Xing draw her sword, saw it stick in the wall’s wood paneling. Belle scrabbled across the wet tiles away from the dead hands and yawning bloody mouth.

“Belle!” Snow said. A sheathed knife fell near her hand. She drew it, grabbed a handful of stringy hair and buried the blade into that lolling eye. White pulsed at the edges of her vision and Belle closed her eyes against the nauseating chaos, willing herself not to pass out.

“Belle,” Mei-Xing said, hauling her to her feet and catching her in a quick, fierce embrace. Belle touched the back of her head, her fingers coming away dark red. The world swayed and buckled. Her lips felt numb.

“Come up here, darling. Mei too,” Dad said, reaching for her as if she were a toddler to be picked up. Her limbs refused to obey her, slow and stupid. On the fourth rung, David and Dad hauled her up the rest of the way, Mei-Xing at her heels. Dad ‘s face doubled and tripled before her eyes. Grey and stamped grim . . . Someone heaved the reinforced trap door in place with a deafening screech. Bundled in their grip to the dusty floor, Belle lay. Curled around her throbbing head and aching heart. She should have stayed. Rum needed her. If he was dead, what would she do? What would—darkness surged up and claimed her.

 

“Open your eyes,” someone said. Belle obeyed, only to be blinded by a penlight. She cursed, warding it off. Her head pounded with each heartbeat.

“Tell me your name.” Every muscle and joint protested her sitting up.

“Belle.” Had it been an hour, a day? A match struck, lighting an oil lamp. Snow knelt beside her, beautiful even with rain-matted hair and blood splatter on her face. The edges of Belle’s vision swam, pain an urgent heartbeat in the back of her head. Beyond Snow, Belle saw Mei-Xing’s lanky form sprawled on a cot, an ice pack strapped to her knee, face buried in the crook of one arm.

“Where is everyone? Dad? Rum?”

“It’s ok, Belle. You passed out. It’s been maybe a couple minutes. Dr. Whale said to check the pupils after a bump on the head,” Snow said, touching Belle’s forehead gently. Belle shut her eyes, counted to five. Things seemed steadier. Snow handed Belle her gun.

“Emma loaded them. There’s enough for all of us.”

“The wall? The walkers?” she asked, complex sentences beyond her. Snow’s lips thinned.

“They’re still coming. Kathryn and Fred are missing. Regina and Henry are nowhere to be found. She left Sidney, a walker got him. Phil and Mr. Gold--” A brutal pause.

“What?” Belle demanded, steeling her quivering heart and rebelling stomach. Snow grabbed her hand and squeezed it, sympathy oozing from every pore.

“Belle--”The consoling tone enraged and shattered her. She yanked her hand back, hot tears welling and falling from unblinking eyes.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said. Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her skin. _Oh God. Not this, please God not this._ Heart in her throat, Belle felt her bravery crumble inward like a log crumbling to ash. She couldn’t lose him, she _couldn’t_.

“No one can find them. It’s chaos out there.” Belle surged to her feet, pain lancing her brain. Snow caught her swaying.

“Belle, we’ll find them. But you need rest. Running off with a head injury is a good way to get yourself killed.”

“I have to—Snow, please!” Belle took one shaky step.

“You know I’m right, Belle. David and Moe will go help, they’ll find him.” The older woman was implacable, the image of a warrior goddess without remorse.

“We should go too! They’ll need every weapon they can--”

“You with a concussion and Mei-Xing with a knee swollen to the size of a grapefruit? Emma and I will go pick off the ones we can from the roof. We prepared for this.” It was true; Rum and Regina had protocols in place if the camp was breeched. _Regina_! The thought blasted through the lingering red mist of pain.

“Snow, we have to go! Regina, she knows. If she wanted her revenge on Gold—hell, if she wanted to stop any retribution for her actions . . .”

“My God. She’s gonna let them in.” Snow blanched.

  

The Herd Protocol was simple: seal off every auxiliary door and street, gather as many supplies as you can carry, and fall back to Town Hall. The lights on the wall were the signal. Any audible alarm would do more harm than good. Belle clutched a handful of Dad’s rain-slick jacket. In pairs, they’d slipped into the alley outside the shop. The wall loomed, punctuated with sounds of intense battle. It shredded Belle’s heart to turn her back to the wall. _We all have jobs to do,_ she thought. Hers was to make sure Regina hadn’t signed their death warrants.

David flicked his fingers, and in tight formation, they stomped through puddles along the wall toward the docks. Mei-Xing limped, sword in hand and leaning heavily on Dad. Snow and Emma brought up the rear.

“Ok, you two?” Belle whispered.

“Holding up,” he grunted. Mei-Xing, nostrils flaring with each breath, only gave a terse nod. They put down the few walkers that staggered close. Anton’s greenhouses north of town were sealed off; as was Whale’s surgery in the post office. Belle ducked close to David, ears assaulted by the sounds of shrill screams. Marco’s shop, oh God. In a rain-cloaked second, Belle saw Marco’s son August—all that was left of him between the walkers was a smear of blood and his wooden leg. A hot metallic taste filled her mouth, too fierce for grief. Belle squeezed off two rounds, missing both times, David and Snow dispatched them. Her swimming head was hell on her aim.

“Come on!” Snow said. Belle shoved her soaked curls from her forehead and ran after David. The cannery was where Storybrooke’s generators where housed, along with part of the fuel supply. The walls were weakest near the water. The chain link fence was reinforced with sheet metal, but a herd could—

“If she wanted to kill us, why not just shoot us outside the gate?” Emma asked, huddled under her dad’s coat.

“She wanted Henry. Graham--” Belle’s voice broke on the name, “Graham thwarted her. She’s improvising.”

“This way,” David said, gesturing with the barrel of the M16, “around the corner of the cannery. Tillman showed me where the generators we--”

Walkers. A sea, a swarm of them stumbling and pawing at the noise of the rain on the corrugated roof, separated from them by only a chain link gate. They staggered back, pressed against the brick wall.

“I thought the fence was reinforced!” Belle hissed.

“It was!” Dad said, “Regina must’ve--”

“What, torn down sheet metal with her bare hands? Someone was helping her.” Snow said.

“Who could--” Dad began.

“It doesn’t matter. We need to reinforce the gate,” Mei-Xing said, biting the words out between gasps for breath. David nodded.

“We had another car here, stocked for runs. Regina must’ve taken it.” Belle frowned at the cannery yard. Anton had locked it up tight; every door was shut and barred.

“The truck! There’s a truck Anton uses for equipment in the cannery,” Dad said. David’s grin was knife-thin.

“Mei-Xing, Emma, Snow, go keep watch. Moe, Belle and I will go unlock the door,” David said.

“You remember how to hotwire a car, Pop?” Emma said, mustering a wobbling smirk. David dragged her close to drop a kiss on her wet blond hair.

“Of course. I had a good teacher. Watch each other’s backs.”

The three of them crept to cannery door, hunched under the narrow overhang. An impressive looking padlock barring the door.

“Right, let’s try and be quiet about it,” David said, positioning the stock of his M16. Dad gripped the chain and Belle brace her boots on the swaying door. Metal rang on metal as David struck once, twice, three times. The lock held.

“Shit,” Dad muttered. Belle glanced through the sheets of rain to Mei-Xing, Snow and Emma, killing walkers through the gaps in the chain link. The walkers were restless with the noise, swatting ineffectually at the fence. Given a bit more incentive, that chain link would buckle . . .

“Try again,” Belle said, leaving Dad and David to batter at the lock. Dad and David took turns battering at the padlock, the former cursing fluently under his breath.

“Fuck this,” David snarled, “get back!” Belle and Dad jumped back. David aimed his M16 and blasted the padlock from the wall.

“Pop!” Emma’s shrill voice shot through the three of them like electricity.

“The gate’s starting to buckle! Hurry up over there!” Mei-Xing said. David heaved the gun and struck, with a screech the padlock gave. Belle heaved a sigh of relief and scurried to help Dad and David heave open the door.

“I’ll get the truck. Moe, Belle help with the walkers!” David said, slinging the battered M16 across his back. A screech of abused metal opened the door and a large walker lunged for Belle. Dad drew his machete and hacked off an arm. Belle finished it with a knife through its temple. It was only as the body crumpled to the puddle-pocked cement that she saw it was Anton.

“Anton. What were you doing here?” Belle whispered.

“No time. Come on!” Dad said, hauling her to the fence. Blinded by rain, she only heard the screaming. Energy surged through her and she sprinted, Dad wheezing at her heels.

“Snow! Emma! Mei! Where are you?” Dad said.

“ _They broke through_!” Snow screamed.

“We’re pinned!” Mei-Xing said. Walkers shambled through the rain, lurching on broken limbs, strings of flesh and old clothing dripping rainwater. Belle stopped, she could make out the fence, the walkers, but couldn’t see where they were pinned.

“Don’t fire until we know where they are!” she said. Dad did one better. He waved his arms, rapping the barrel of his shotgun along the corrugated wall of the cannery.

“Come on, you fuckers! A fresh piece of meat waiting for you right here!” he shouted. Belle scrambled atop a stack of pallets, at last seeing the three of them pinned behind a fold of dented chain link—a dead walker was the only thing protecting them from the herd an inch from their noses.

“Hang on!” she said, picking off one walker, then two. Mei-Xing braced her legs on the fence and climbed up enough to lop off a head or two, awkward though the angle was. The woman was made of steel and grit. A low roar announced David had fired up the truck. Belle’s heart leapt to her throat when Mei-Xing slipped, yanked forward by a burly male walker. The sword flashed, caught in one of fence’s links. Emma and Snow grabbed her legs. The flailing made it impossible to get a clean shot. Maybe if she changed the angle a bit—Belle jumped down, slipping on the slick asphalt to a kneeling position. The impact jarred her, the edges of her vision pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She took a breath, squeezed—the walker’s head exploded at her shot. Snarling, Mei-Xing freed her sword and hacked at all within range.

The steady stream of Dad’s invective cut off abruptly and Belle turned to find him atop a stack of boxes. The yard was rapidly filling with walkers as they watched from their niches of relative safety. Storybrooke would be overrun at this rate. She couldn’t let that happen. This was his place, _their_ place.

A massive flatbed truck fishtailed through the puddles, David madly spinning the wheel to correct the trajectory. Several walkers met a wet, sticky end under those monstrous tires. David maneuvered the giant vehicle to block the broken fence, Mei-Xing hauling Emma and Snow from their chain link prison to safety perched atop the truck’s cab. An imperfect solution, Belle thought, but better than watching the walkers stream through Storybrooke like water around rocks. The group of them picked off the walkers in the yard.

“What now?” Dad asked. Belle shrugged, numb fingers clumsy around her new magazine.

“I say we reload and sweep the perimeter. Regina might have sabotaged other places,” she said. The group shared glances, then each nodded.

“Hand to hand from now on, if possible. We can’t burn through all the ammo,” Dad suggested.

 

It had been in part, a selfish request. Belle only wanted to get back to the gate, back to see if Rum and Phil had survived. What they found was full-scale war. The gate was still cracked, walkers hemorrhaging through the gap. Bodies—walker and living alike—lay in bloody repose beside the incongruous ‘Welcome’ sign. The light was beginning to fail. Belle shuddered at the thought of fighting off a herd in total darkness.

“Right,” David said, the muscle firing in his jaw announcing his stubborn courage.

“Mei-Xing, Snow, and Emma will take a position of cover. Pick off what you can, guide the survivors to the shops and caches. Moe, Belle, and I will press toward the wall. We have to get it closed.”

Belle concentrated on covering David’s right. Hand to hand was almost impossible with this many walkers; too many had filtered through for the gate to be any sort of bottleneck. The M16 battered away in controlled bursts, often taking several walkers at once. Storybrooke citizens formed up with them, forming a pointed phalanx as they made their way to gate near one of the twin ladders protected by steel and razor wire.

“Any word from Gold?” Dad asked one of the defenders. The grizzled bearded man shook his head, swiping walker blood from his cheek as he reloaded his .45.

“We’ve been too busy to send help,” he said. The screech of abused metal rose over the cacophony of walkers, gunfire and screams. A wet thud announced a walker hitting the asphalt from above. Belle squinted through the rain to see a man dangling from his fingertips from the edge of the wall, long hair flying.

“Rum!” Belle shouted, lunging for the ladder. Voices shouted at her, but she couldn’t hear them over her pounding heart. The rungs were wet; her boots slipped a couple times, lashed by wind and rain. Rum!Rum!Rum!Rum!

“Hang on, Gold! Just hang on, I’ve almost got it!” Phil’s voice greeted her as she scaled the ladder. Phil hurled his body against a lever, blood vessels popping and tendons straining. Belle lunged for Rum’s white-knuckled hands, latching onto his wrist.

“I’ve got you!” Her boots slipped on the rain-slick grating.

“Belle!” Rum said, looking up at her with incredulous, terrified eyes.

“Hold on!” she said. Belle’s arms quivered at the effort of taking even some of Rum’s dangling weight. Rum’s fingers squealed against the wet metal, his grip failing. HurryPhilpleasehurry!

“ _Phil_. Phil, help!” she screamed.

“Belle,” Rum whispered with despair in his eyes. Behind her there was a deafening _chunk_ and screech of gears and motor. The wall shuddered as the gate slammed closed. He was _slipping_! Phil’s greasy hands plunged over the rail and snagged Rum’s arm. A tremendous heave left the three of them in a panting heap on the grated catwalk. Phil rolled free, already reaching for his weapon.

With a sob, Belle clutched Rum to her and felt his heartbeat hammer against hers. She peeled back far enough to see his face, dried blood caked at his temple. Whole, alive, and together. The pain in her head and the day’s terrors were distant afterthoughts with the warm solidness of his arms around her.

“Oh Rum, I thought I’d never see you again,” she whispered. Rum mustered a weak smile, grimy hands framing her face between them.

“Nor I, love.” There was peace in the space of a few heartbeats.

“Belle, come on love. We’re still not safe yet,” Rum murmured, pecking a kiss on her temple.

“The wall’s holding, Gold. No more will get in,” Phil said. One lens of his glasses was broken, the black wire framing a bloodshot eye. The two of them staggered to their feet, Belle bearing some of his weight—his cane being nowhere in sight. Belle and Rum followed Phil’s gaze and saw the sea of walkers beyond the wall breaking like waves against a shore.

“The gate will hold! Kill the bastards!” Phil shouted from the wall. Belle leaned closer to Rum. The wall would hold. And they would be safe.    

  

 


	11. Brave Soldier Boy

Part 11: Brave Soldier Boy

 

All told, Storybrooke had lost twenty-five men and women—twenty-seven if you included those who died in human-to-human conflict. Belle’s throat tightened at the thought of Graham, and Anton. Dad and David had worked closely with the gentle giant in his beloved greenhouses.

Kathryn and Fred, both injured from their firefight with Regina, stood swaying in front of Rum and Belle at the sheriff’s station. All of them had worked the night away to restore a semblance of order. Mei-Xing and Dad were at Whale’s surgery getting patched up—Belle herself was under strict orders to get plenty of rest. The Nolan family and Phil were at Granny’s helping distribute hot food and blankets.

“The town is secure, Sir. The walls held,” Fred said, pressing a wad of fresh gauze to the gunshot wound in his left arm. Six inches to the right and Regina would have killed him. Belle rubbed her gritty eyes, fighting the weight of exhaustion as Fred spoke.

“Thank you, Mr. Greene. Where are we on clean up?” Rum asked, his face grey. He looked tired and worn.

“Whale is tending our injured—mostly bruises and scrapes. The walker bodies have been burned, our own are being buried.” Pain struck Belle’s heart like a fist. The all-clear had scarcely been called before Rum had recovered Bae’s body. Together Belle and Rum had found a good spot for him: a grave dug by his father’s own hands nestled beneath one of Storybrooke’s towering pines. The letter Rum had written for him was clasped in Bae’s cold hands, over his heart. A permanent token of his father’s devotion. Belle had carved the marker on the tree: _Bailey Gold, Beloved Son_.

“Were any bitten?” Belle asked, dread penetrating the fog. Kathryn’s mouth thinned, blue eyes flashing.

“Two. Their families are dealing with them,” she said. Belle shuddered at the thought.

“Make sure they’re quarantined. We don’t want an outbreak,” Rum said, pushing to his feet. Hair wild with blood scabbed black at his temple, he hardly looked the polished mayor, now more a battle-scarred warlord.

“Set our freshest people on watch with two hour rotations. Then we should all try to get some rest.”

 

She and Rum leaned on each other as they limped back to the shop. A warm shower and scalding cup of broth went a long way to making her feel more human. She sat on Rum’s attic bed, watching him ease into a loose sleeping shirt. Every movement was careful, as if afraid he might shatter. Belle understood the feeling. He collapsed bed beside her, staring at his hands. What terrors was he reliving inside his head? Her throat closed, she couldn’t even imagine what he was feeling now. It was so cruelly brief, his reunion with his dearly-sought son, then tragedy of his death, then the herd. Belle herself remembered vividly the walker lunging for Mei-Xing, putting down Anton, the soul-jarring sight of Rum dangling from the wall’s edge.

“I’m sorry.” The words seemed too small, too inadequate when she said them, like a band-aid over a gushing wound. She augmented the pathetic words with a trembling hand on his turned shoulder. Rum faced her, tears falling from unblinking eyes; God, grief yawned in his eyes, bleak and endless, an abyss painted in shades of sweet brown. Belle’s own heart quailed at the sight.

“How . . . how can I live when Bae is dead?” he said, choked with tears. Belle swallowed the hot knot in her throat, trembling in earnest now. She had no words, nothing to mitigate this loss or even a frame of reference to _understand_ his pain. Despairing anger coiled in her chest, a fury aimed at God, the twisted world they lived in, her own helplessness. Death was commonplace in this world, even more so than in the old, but the pain was no less real or devastating.

“Belle,” he said, his rough palm cupping her cheek, “He’s . . . he was my reason for . . . for— _living_. I wanted to make up for . . . I needed to tell him--” his voice crumbled with his expression.

“Oh Rum,” she whispered, drawing him in a tight embrace. She held him as he went to pieces, lean body wracked by horrible sobs, hands clinging to fistfuls of her clothes.

“Oh my boy . . . my sweet boy. Bae . . . Bae . . .” Belle wept with him and soon exhaustion and the grey weight of grief dragged them down into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

 

Belle roused to the sound of the attic stair clattering down. She was upright and reaching for her gun before she was even fully awake. Kathryn’s golden head appeared through the aperture, haloed in morning sunlight. Rum didn’t stir. Belle stayed Kathryn’s progress with a gesture.

“Rum?” she said softly. He lay on the far side of the bed curled in a ball beneath the blankets, lost to the world. An empty bottle of rum sagged from his fingertips. Belle frowned. She knew he was trying to cope, to sleep, to drown out the pain, but still it worried her. Pecking a kiss on his stubbled cheek, Belle shimmied into her jeans and shoved her gun into her holster. Kathryn had taken her ease on one of the shop’s stools, looking tousled and well-rested. Her rifle lay across her back, as much a part of her as her sharp blue eyes.

“We’ll let him sleep. If there’s news, I’ll take care of it,” Belle said firmly. She moved to the hot plate and put the kettle on. Lipton tea bags weren’t coffee, but they’d do. More than anything, Belle wanted something to do with her hands. If Rum was mayor, Belle was determined to be a deputy mayor—vice mayor?—if only to ease some of his burdens. Kathryn’s mouth thinned, but she gave a grudging nod.

“He’s been to hell and back, even more than the rest of us. No parent should have to bury their child.”

“You knew about Bae?” Belle asked. Kathryn gave a tight shrug.

“He trusted me with Storybrooke’s security more than Regina. I knew a little. I knew he had a kid and he was lost.” Belle caught the kettle as it murmured its warning whistles. She poured two mugs and set the bags to steep.

“News?” Belle prompted, offering Kathryn a mug.

“Thanks,” Kathryn said, pausing to take a ginger sip, “There’s still a lot of walkers out there: clustered at the gate, at the pier, and a few at the greenhouses. Fred says they might be able to smell Anton’s cattle. The walls are holding without a problem, but if we’re planning on scavenging anytime soon, we’ll need to come up with a plan. The two that were bit have been put down and buried. Whale’s bitching that his stores of antibiotics and bandaging are running low. We’re good on food for now, but we need to make sure the walkers didn’t taint the wells. Ammo’s another serious concern.”

“I’ve found several books on the process of reloading,” Belle offered, “Do we have gunpowder?” Kathryn’s brows rose, her long mouth curling slightly.

“Not that I know of. I’ll look into that. In the meantime, I’ll tell all the kids to gather up the shells and casings.”

They lapsed into silence and Belle composed a mental list of the books she’d need from the library. Mr. Tillman and Phil could probably fabricate the reloading equipment, she could enlist Dr. Whale in growing their own penicillin spores. Gauze was easy enough to manufacture, given they had access to clean cotton. Something like relief bubbled up. These problems she could fix. It was something tangible she could do, far removed from dead sons and corrupted dreams.

“What about Regina?” Belle asked. Kathryn’s easy posture coiled, like a tiger preparing to pounce.

“What about her? If there’s any justice, she was torn to bits by the herd.”

“If she lived, then Storybrooke is an open book to her. She knows the people, the weak spots, our safety protocols. She could sneak inside and we wouldn’t even know it.”

“She could try.” There was the faintest savage underlining of the last word, a wealth of hunger for vengeance. Kathryn sipped her tea; Belle’s own had gone tepid next to her. Kathryn sighed.

“We can talk to Gold about changing the protocol. But in the meantime we have bigger problems.” Belle pushed herself off the stool and ran a hand through her hair.

“Right. Let’s get to work.”

Belle spent most of the morning seeing to Storybrooke’s defenses. The mess at the docks was of prime importance, and she chose David to head up the repairs. The gate was Phil’s. Mei-Xing and Dad were—forcibly—tucked into Dr. Whale’s makeshift infirmary in the elementary school cafeteria, along with dozens of other wounded. Along the way, a dozen people stopped her with complaints and concerns. Being a deputy mayor was a headache—literally. Belle pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the pounding. Noon saw her back to Rum’s shop. Rum was up, washed and dressed in cleanish jeans and shirt. He was bent over a worktable, cleaning his guns.

“Where were you?” he asked softly without turning. Belle frowned, baffled by the sudden chill between them.

“I was seeing to a couple things.” She recited the list of problems she and Kathryn had gone over this morning, and the ones she’d picked up on her rounds.

“How . . . industrious,” he said. Belle clenched her teeth. Anger and a faint uneasy terror warred in her belly.

“I thought so. I wanted to give you time, Rum. Time to rest, to _grieve_. Everyone here has lost someone irreplaceable—” He whirled around, pain blazing from bloodshot brown eyes.

“And what do _you_ know of loss? Your father, your closest friends, all have survived.” Belle took a half step back, pushed by the contempt and venom in his voice. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she mustered calm, patience.

“That’s not fair, Rum. I lost my mother before all of this. Everyone I knew when we moved here from Melbourne. And after? I’ve seen countless friends die, some _pulled apart_ right in front of me. I’m so sorry about Bailey. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling now. But let me help you. Please, I love you.” She laid her hand over his. A shudder wracked him, his expression melting.

“Belle,” he whispered. In the breath of her name she heard apology, pain and aching, aching need. He wouldn’t let himself admit he needed her, but he did. Just as she needed him. Pain bottled in her throat, Belle drew him into a crushing embrace, lips peppering his stubbled cheek, his ear, his hair. A couple hot tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

“Belle, my darling Belle , I love you so. . .” he wove the words together in a psalm as rough hands reached for her clothing. The heat from their argument transmuted into something sweeter.

“Rum,” she breathed, aflame with desire. The ache was for that sweet moment when he entered her and their hearts hammered so close to each other, so achingly close to being one. Belle yanked his shirt over his head, throwing it aside. His own fingers flew over the buttons of hers, the clasp of her bra. His mouth met hers, hot and hungry. She drew him down on the hard floor, among a nest of their discarded clothes. Rum ground his pelvis against hers and Belle moaned softly at the feeling of his hot cock through their jeans. She raked her fingernails down his back, hard. Rum sucked in a breath through his teeth, brown eyes ablaze with a potent mix of lust and adoration.

“ _Mo chroí,”_ he choked out, breath fluttering warm and sweet against her neck.

“Rum, please,” she whispered, clawing at their jeans. His hands moved to help and once freed, he rocked against her sex, teasing.

“I don’t know how you can love me, but I thank God you do,” he said, framing her face between his hands.

“I do, Rum. I love you,” she said, craning her neck up to kiss his chin.

He sighed and eased inside. Belle cried out with him, exquisitely stretched. Their loving was fierce and hungry, a blind affirmation that they were alive, in love, and together.

In the cooling heat that followed, Rum buried his face in her hair and clung to her, his only shelter in the storm. Belle twined her limbs around him. They would be all right. They would make it. Together.

Belle nuzzled close, breathing deep of his scent, and Rum’s fingers toyed with her hair, the both of them drowsing in a precious moment of peace. Rum heaved a deep sigh, rolling on to rest his head on her chest. The alternating warmth and cool of his breath on her sweat-damp skin was delightful.

“I’m sorry, love. I . . . I scarcely can say how I feel. Bae is gone. I built Storybrooke as a place he could live in when I found him.”

“Storybrooke is now a safe place for other children, for people like me,” Belle whispered. Rum’s dark eyes swam with emotion and he laid his hand over her heart. She shuddered at the sensation of his warm, callused palm on her breast.

“Yes. I’ll keep it safe. For you, my darling Belle.”

“Oh Rum,” Belle said, choked. She drew his head close for a kiss. Their kisses blurred and softened, desire’s heat a distant burn. For now, sleep took them.      

 

A loud knock roused her from the gentle dose, Rum groaning where he lay spooned behind her, his arm tightening around her middle.

“Shop’s closed. Leave your complaints at the door,” Rum quipped through a yawn.

“There’s a bit of a situation at the gate, Gold. You should come see this,” Kathryn’s tone was odd. Energy sang through her, urging her up.

“Walkers?” Rum demanded, both of them rising to dress. Belle rubbed sleep from her eyes and found her jeans under the table, and shoved Rum’s shirt toward him. Staggering to her feet, she climbed into her jeans, dragging the weight of her holster and pistol. Once her weapon was snug against her hip, she felt more prepared, even as she untangled her bra. Rum cursed as he struggled into his jeans and Belle hid her smile.

“No, sir. People,” Kathryn said through the door, “They say they’re from a town called Calais? A place like Storybrooke to hear them tell it.”

“Then why are they here?” Belle wondered aloud. Now dressed, Rum reassembled his pistol, tamped in a loaded magazine, racked one into the chamber, and tucked it in its holster—all with startling speed and dexterity. Belle bit her lip against a pulse of arousal.

“Let’s find out what they want,” Rum said, grabbing his cane.

Outside, Storybrooke was seething nest of activity, like an upset anthill. This morning their energies had been focused inward, on repair and recovery. Now Storybrooke gathered to face another possible threat. Kathryn, Fred, Snow, and a dozen others of their fiercest and sharpest formed up behind Rum.

“Have they identified themselves? How well are they armed?” Rum asked, leading the group towards the gate.

“Roughly a dozen, and they’re all seasoned. Decent arms, nothing military-grade though. Except for the big blond fella, he’s military, you can tell. Plus he’s got a fucking _sword_ ,” Fred said. Being ex-military himself, Fred was as good a judge as any.

“They’d have to be strong to make it this far,” Belle said.

“Eyes on all of them, find a mark and stick to it. We’ll be ready if this turns ugly,” Rum said, as he set his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder.

“And if it doesn’t? What do we do with them?” Snow asked, knocking an arrow in her bow.

Rum mustered the curling dragon’s smirk.

“We’ll see what their worth first, Mrs. Nolan,” he said.

Phil loped toward them, speckled with grease up to the elbow and brandishing an M16.

“The gate’s buttoned up tight, Gold. Nothing less than a tank will break through.”

“Good work, Mr. Chevalier,” Rum said and the look of mutual respect between them made Belle smile. The brief good feeling carried her past where Rum had nearly fallen to his death the night before. They were together and strong. They could face what was beyond the wall.

Belle scaled the ladder behind Rum. Atop the wall, Kathryn shoved a battered rifle into her hands. Belle nodded to her, winding the strap around her fist and settling the rifle against her shoulder. The people below stood ranged in formation, their dented blue van behind them. The leader was a large blond man with a goatee, decked in body armor. In his gloved hands was a battered machine gun. Rum or Phil would know exactly what it was, but Belle was distracted by the longsword he wore across his back, just like Fred said.

She glanced at the rest of the group: there were a couple old men, two children, three women in their mid-twenties, and a young man who stood oddly stooped. Was he injured?

A tense moment passed as the two groups sized each other up. If this was their show of strength, their leader was doing the lion’s share, Belle thought.

“I am Mr. Gold, mayor of Storybrooke. Who are you and why are you here?” Rum shouted without preamble. Of all things, the blond man cracked a crooked grin.

“I’m Samson, and this is my group. We built a place like this not far from here. The herd tore through our town, and the fire took what was left. We’re good people, and we’ll contribute.” Samson’s group was armed, but none of them seemed to have the strength or desire to lift them in their direction.

“Why should we trust you?” Kathryn said.

“Trust is too much to ask, wouldn’t you agree? Tolerance would be easier to swallow,” Samson said.

“Well said,” Rum replied.

“Thank you.” A husky female voice joined the mix and Belle swiveled to find a woman easing from the van on Samson’s arm. Massively pregnant, the olive-skinned woman leaned heavily on Samson. A glance at her leg found it crudely splinted. Belle’s heart went out to her. They did need help. The woman’s vividly green eyes scanned the wall, settling on Rum.

“Storybrooke is the first good place we’ve seen in a long time. My name is Eleanor. I was a doctor, before. I can help you. We can help each other.”

“Plus, we could have killed you if we wanted to,” said a soft voice in Belle’s ear. Sucking in a gasp, she swiveled and stared into a grotesquely deformed face. Beneath a shock of red hair, a bony protuberance bulged one eye out, his jaw was too small, the nose caved in. Their man wasn’t injured, but a hunchback, bent almost double by his twisted spine. The pistol looked like a child’s toy in his massive hands. The sharp jolt of fear made her heart pound, hands trembling slightly on the rifle.

“Take one more step big guy, and I’ll drop you,” Rum snarled, voice hushed with menace. The man limped back and spread his hands.

“No need for violence. From the looks of it, you guys had it just as rough as we did. We need each other. We need people to survive this. I’m Quincy by the way.”

“Quinn, you’ve proved your point. Get down here before these good people decide to shoot you,” Eleanor said. Quincy descended the wall as deftly as a monkey. At the woman’s signal, the group dropped their weapons and spread their hands. Belle swallowed hard. Excitement, fear, and wariness warred within her. Either they were good people, or very talented liars. Rum surely would be able to tell the difference.  

“Give us an hour to consider it,” Rum said, every inch the warlord in his icy tone and brittle posture. Quincy’s trick had rattled him.

“Of course,” Eleanor said. Samson helped her back into the van and the rest of the group formed a loose semi-circle as they settled to wait.

Storybrooke’s defenders clustered on walkway, conversing in hushed tones.

“I think they’re full of shit, especially after the stunt they pulled,” a grizzled vet named Thomas said.

“The woman seemed sincere,” Snow said.

“They could be lying,” Kathryn said.

“They could be telling the truth,” Belle countered.

“It’s Schrodinger’s hunchback,” Rum quipped dryly with a wave of his hand, “they could do damage enough if their intent was less than pure, but they could also be invaluable allies. Samson wouldn’t risk his pregnant woman’s life. The rest rely on Samson, and Samson relies on Eleanor. We will take them in and _watch_. And if the hunchback makes a move for Belle again, _shoot_ him.” Rum shouldered past Fred and grasped Belle by the shoulders.

“Are you all right?” he asked, every inch of him vibrating with restrained energy. Belle squeezed his hand on her shoulder. There had been no malice in Quincy’s green eyes, only earnest appeal and gentleness.

“I’m fine. He meant no harm, Rum. He could have killed me if he wanted.” Rum’s jaw fired.

“You’re too understanding for your own good,” he said.

“I’m with you, aren’t I?” Belle fired back with a cheeky grin.

Rum chuckled, then quickly sobered.

“Are you sure you can close the gate once we open it, Mr. Chevalier?” he asked.

“Oh yeah,” Phil said, squinting at the controls through his glasses, “we only had a problem because the idiot before me didn’t lubricate the--”

“It was a yes or no question, Chevalier. Open it please.”

“Sure thing,” Phil said, cracking his knuckles.

The wall shuddered beneath their feet as the gate opened. The group shuffled in as their group descended the ladder. Belle felt a sense of déjà vu upon seeing the huddled group facing the watchful, armed might of Storybrooke.

“Welcome to Storybrooke,” Belle said. Samson gave a short bow.

“A pleasure. I hope Quinn didn’t scare you. He’s been climbing since he was a kid, I took a risk that you wouldn’t shoot him.”

“He’s lucky. It isn’t wise to sneak up on people these days,” Belle said with a smile.

“True,” Samson replied. Rum began his opening spiel.

“You may keep your weapons, with the understanding that we keep ours. Also, we will require the use of your vehicle. I will assign your duties tomorrow once you’re rested. Miss Arlind, please help me escort Miss Eleanor to Dr. Whale. He’ll take a look at that leg.” With a wink to her, Rum ushered them off with a gesture. Deft of him, isolating the group’s de facto leader under the guise of giving her care. If this went south, as she knew Rum always planned for, she would be a useful hostage. Samson trotted after her, like an obedient puppy.

The gate slammed home with a resounding crash, and Belle turned to say something to Phil as he stepped off the ladder. Something in his expression worried her. He looked pale, like he’d seen a ghost.

“Phil? Are you ok?” Snow said. He tilted his head this way and that, as if trying to clear his vision.

“Chevalier,” Rum said, frowning.

Belle followed his gaze toward one of the newcomers, a young woman with a riot of red-brown hair. The hair on the back of Belle’s neck prickled and she grabbed Rum’s hand, motioning to Snow for silence. It couldn’t be. Before the world ended, Aurora had been in a coma from a car accident. There was no way she could’ve--

“Rory?” Phil whispered, his voice cracking over the singular syllable. Tears welled and fell from unblinking eyes, as if he didn’t wish to wake from the dream. The girl stood from where she bent gathering supplies from the van. She glanced around to find the source of her name. Such a lovely girl, Belle thought. That long wild hair, blue eyes, a wry quirk to her mouth. She froze, grocery bags falling from nerveless fingers and spilling their contents on the asphalt.

“Phil?” she breathed.

“Oh my God. I thought you were—that we had--”Phil was incoherent, face twisted in mingled joy and disbelief. Watching them stagger toward each other was like watching magnets collide. Tears flooded Belle’s eyes. Their embrace was fierce, tumbling to the ground as Phil’s knees buckled. Aurora petted Phil’s face, and Phil kissed the tears from her cheeks. Sweet words of reunion flew, in between joyful sobs. Belle squeezed Rum’s hand, she saw the ghost of his smile and felt a fist of tension within her relax. She knew seeing such a reunion touched close to Bae’s loss, but the bittersweet note to his expression revealed no resentment. Belle leaned against Rum’s shoulder. Everything would be all right. They could make it, as long as they had each other.  

     

      

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it ends. I hope you enjoyed it! Shout out to Shannon for the great hunchback idea!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So this a strange little story, the demented result of too many Sundays spent watching OUAT and Walking Dead back to back. It is not a strict cross-over; I basically hijacked Walking Dead's zombie rules and twisted Storybrooke to my liking.
> 
> Reviews are like brains to a hungry zombie. Delicious.


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